High Seas and Low Gods
by thecouchcarrot
Summary: AU Destiel adventures. Lucky Dean and Doc Samuel are infamous Caribbean pirates on the run from Poseidon - and oh yeah, Poseidon's real and Castiel is working for him. Dean's on to him, though... in more ways than one. Plagued by Greek curses, hidden agendas, mythical monsters and repressed sexuality, will the Winchesters ever make it back to England alive? NOW COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: _Hello, my dear readers. As a way of explanation, I thought I might inform you now that I am not, in fact, on crack cocaine or any other mind-altering substances. I did, however, come up with the idea of writing a Supernatural-meets-Pirates-of-the-Caribbean-meets-the-Odyssey AU comedy fanfic, and this happens to be it. _

_Yeah, I don't know either. Maybe it's a chemical imbalance? _

_Anyhoo, basically, it's the characters we know and love plopped down in the Golden Age of Piracy and sent on an archetypical adventure-journey with some Greek gods thrown in. I could've just had Sam and Dean go through the Odyssey in America, but that would make way too much sense! And I do intend for this to be a screwball kind of adventure. I've been way too dark and serious lately and I wanted to write something that feels more like "It's A Terrible Life" than "What Is and Never Should Be," you know? Less angst, more stripey shirts and vampire bobbleheads. This first segment isn't that funny because I'm trying to set up a hell of a lot of stuff, but I promise it'll get sillier. Aaaaand of course, as with all good fics, the REAL appeal is DEAN AN' CASTIEL 4 EVAR NO - 5 EVAR BECUZ 5 IS MOAR THAN 4!1!_

_I should be banned from the English language. _

_Please review and let me know what you think - the more nice things you say, the more compelled I will feel to continue the story as fast as my pudgy little fingers can type! If you say terrible things, I will just cry and eat cookies and my fingers will get pudgier. AND, as a SPESHAL BONUS, anyone who reviews will get a one-time-only Imaginary Pirate Dean in the imaginary mail! As they say on the high seas, yo ho ho and a bottle of _**sexy, sexy manflesh. **

_And no, without further ado, the story! _

_P.S. I forgot to mention, this is in no way intended to be an accurate representation of pirating or sailing or any marine-related activities. This is the euphemistical fantasy version of all that. So please, if I have my characters hoist the mainjib to the sailbarge or whatever, don't worry about informing me of my nautical inaccuracies. I also am not even TRYING to make Sam and Dean sound piratical, so yeah. Thanks! I LOVE YOU ALL SO MUCH._

* * *

**London, England**

Lisa Braeden had met the love of her life, and his name was Dean Smith.

Dean was a handsome sailor, much better kept than the other ruffians who came to port in London. He parted his short hair to the side and had a reddish-brown beard that he kept cropped close to his ruddy face; he still had all his front teeth, and lively green eyes that danced and darted. Lisa was defenseless against his charms. A poor seamstress, she had seen many men come and go in her shop, and none of them could hold a candle to him. Her father had warned her about sailors, but Dean was different. Dean was honest.

He was only in London for a month, and when he had to set sail again Lisa wept bitterly. "Please," she begged, "take me with you!"

Dean tutted softly and held her close. "Women are bad luck aboard a ship," he reminded her. "Besides, I won't be long. I should be back in a few months."

"Return to me," she said, taking his hand in hers. "Promise me you'll return."

He kissed her hand, and smiled. "I promise. And when I do…" He kissed it again, but slower, more deliberately. "I'll make an honest woman out of you."

And Lisa believed him, heart and soul.

….

A week after he lost his wife to scarlet fever, Dr. Samuel Wesson apprehended a burglar in his bedroom.

It was just after midnight. He was lying awake, staring at the ceiling, trying and failing to forget how large and empty the bed was, thinking of her pale hand in her coffin and how cold her forehead felt when he bent down and pressed his lips to her, when he heard a noise.

A rustling, at the window. The distinctive metallic click of a blade sliding under the latch.

Dr. Wesson sat up in his bed and quietly slid off into a crouch.

Moonlight shone through the gap between the heavy curtains and outlined the silhouette of a man, just as the figure worked the latch open and slowly swung the window pane outward, bringing one foot over the sill and stepping into the room.

Braced for an oncoming knife, Dr. Wesson lunged.

The intruder put up a good fight, though for some reason he didn't use his weapon. He stank of cheap rum and mildew and salt. He sparred with Dr. Wesson and jabbed in all the right places, _too _right, _too _familiar, and by the time he had the good doctor winded and pinned to the floor, Sam gasped aloud, "Dean?"

Dean grinned, a glint of white teeth in the darkness. "Sammy." He pressed the cold metal of his knife against Sam's neck. "Just like old times, huh?"

Sam pushed him off and sat up, rubbing the spot where the back of his head had smacked the freezing hardwood floor. "What are you doing here?" he hissed. "You could be hanged!"

Dean stood up. "So could you." He offered his hand.

"No I couldn't," Sam retorted, pushing himself up, ignoring the hand. "I'm legitimate now."

Dean smirked. Sam couldn't see it, but he knew he was smirking. "I know. Doctor _Wesson_. A pillar of the community."

Sam sat down on the bed, suddenly feeling the weight of his bones and the entire night's fatigue, and he asked wearily, "What do you want, Dean?"

Dean paused. "I'm sorry about Jessica. I heard what happened."

Sam clasped his hands. "That's not why you came."

"It's part of why I came." Dean stepped closer. Now that his eyes had adjusted, Sam could see his face better, the serious set of his eyes. "I came to ask for your help."

Sam rolled his eyes. "What, some whore give you the clap? I'm not treating that."

"It's Dad." Dean wasn't joking around anymore. "He's gone missing."

There was a small icy stirring in Sam's heart, but he had grieved too much lately to really feel it. "He's a pirate," he said. "They tend to do that."

Dean reached into his pocket. "He left one of his maps. And this note." He handed Sam a scrap of paper.

Sam took the paper and inspected it in the moonlight. The map game was one he knew intimately – when they were boys, their father would maroon them on an island with a map he'd made himself and a compass, and an X to mark the spot where the crate of food and supplies was hidden. He'd return in a few days. Sam hated the map game.

On the paper was scrawled _Olhos Amarelos. _

"Portuguese," Sam said.

Dean watched him. "Then you know what it says. And why we have to follow him."

Sam folded the scrap and set it on his bed.

"He left me the ship," Dean said.

Sam's eyes darted to Dean's instantly. "You brought her to England? Are you insane?"

"She's tucked away," Dean assured him. "A dock in Wales. I don't care what empire it is, nobody cares in Wales."

Sam flopped back on the bed. "Dean," he moaned, "please, just – go disappear in Jamaica or something. Dad will turn up eventually."

"You should really shave. That mustache makes you look like a Frenchman," Dean said. "And you're getting pale. You practically glow in the dark. You need some sun."

Sam ignored him and just closed his eyes.

"Is that your plan?" Dean asked. "You'll just sit in the dark and rot? Get whiter and skinnier every day?"

Sam tried to ignore how correct he was.

"I haven't asked you for anything," Dean said quietly. "Ever. And I'm asking now." He cleared his throat. "Please come with me."

Sam exhaled, and accepted what he'd known since he recognized Dean's face. "I don't really have a choice, do I?"

Dean smiled.

"Just one journey," Sam said. "Just to Portugal and back. Just to see if he's in trouble. Alright?"

Dean smiled wider.

Sam was already getting a headache. "Promise me we'll be back in a few months. That we'll go as quickly as humanly possible."

Dean nodded quickly. "I promise."

…

**São Luís****, ****Brazil, Five Years Later**

"Faster!" Sam shouted. "We need to go faster!"

"This is as fast as she goes!" Dean shouted back. "She's a friggin' _ship_, you idiot! She only goes as fast as the friggin' _wind!_"

The crew frantically fretted at the rigging, yanking the sails as wide as they would go, all the while cannonballs whizzed about their heads. Every so often one would find its target and send a chunk of the boat splintering, and Dean shouted, "STOP BREAKING MY SHIP!"

Finally they outdistanced the heavier Portuguese ship, _Ciclope_, which was loaded down with spices and silver and had one sail in flames. The hold of the _Impala_ was woefully empty, but at least they were out of firing range, and the burning frigate shrank mercifully in the distance.

"And now," Dean announced loudly, "We set our sights for England!"

A cheer went up among the crew, most of whom were not English at all – Sam and Dean included.

Sam wiped his brow and exhaled. Tanned like leather and the size of a bull moose, he wondered if any of his colleagues would recognize him now. He barely recognized himself. Meanwhile, the crew began to clean up the ship the best they could, making repairs that would hold until they could make port again.

Dean stood at the wheel, grinning and proud. He flipped open his compass and consulted the horizon.

"You make it sound like we'll be in Britain tomorrow," Sam commented. "But I assume we're sailing up the coast?"

"Of course," Dean said. "Yeah, we'll have to make a few stops along the way, but I did promise you, Sam. We'll get there." He glanced back at his compass. "Besides, I've got a pretty girl waiting for me." He raised his eyes dreamily over the seas, a far-off look in his face. "She's beautiful, Sam. And flexible. Limber like a ballerina. She could do this thing where she puts her legs behind her hea-"

"I get it," Sam interrupted. He joined Dean at the wheel, and looked out over the prow of the Impala, the glistening blue waters sparkling in the late afternoon sun. "It's been a long journey. But we did good, didn't we? We killed Yellow Eyes, found Dad…." He swallowed against the lump in his throat. "Gave him a burial at sea."

Dean's hands tightened on the wheel, and he nodded.

Sam sighed. "I guess what I mean is, it's been quite an adventure." He scratched the back of his head. "So… thank you."

Dean smiled. "You're welcome." Then he raised his voice so the other sailors could hear him. "Now go patch up the crew, Doc. I know there's at least one of these bozos who's stupid enough to get in the way of a cannonball!"

"I'm peachy, Cap'n!" Ash hollered from somewhere above him in the rigging. "But thanks for the concern!"

The other sailors laughed heartily.

"You know, I think one of those cannonballs looked at me funny," Henrickson called. "You better prescribe me some bed rest, Doc!"

They laughed again, and the Winchester brothers laughed with them, and Sam felt a great relief and peace in his heart that this was all finally over, and he was on his way back to his old life once again.

He had no idea how wrong he was.

It was just the beginning.

….

**Belém, Brazil**

The crowded tavern teemed with sweaty patrons, tradesmen and sailors alike; the oppressive humidity of the bar hanging in the air like a dank fog, and mingling with the curling wreaths of tobacco smoke, and clinging to skin and hair and damp collars. Jolly prostitutes tickled and grinned gap-toothed smiles, while drunken men leered and sloshed their watery drinks in approval. But out on the stoop of this fine establishment, there sat a man who did not seem to belong.

He sat quietly, in a long leather coat much too warm for the thick summer night. A small mouth and a blank gaze. His dark hair had been ruffled by some long-absent breeze, and eyes were a startling shade of crystal blue.

One particularly inebriated customer stumbled out of the tavern and nearly tripped on the man. He swore and did a double take. "Well who're you?" he demanded in Portuguese.

The man turned his head slowly and looked up at him.

The drunk shivered.

"I am a servant of Poseidon," the strange man said.

"What're you doin' out here?" the drunk asked.

The man turned his gaze back to the night beyond, out towards the docks and the beckoning dark sea. "I'm waiting."

The drunk blinked. "Fer what?"

The strange man stared out to sea, patient and silent and implacable, and said, "Dean Winchester."


	2. Chapter 2

A/N:_ Thank you thank thank you, my special darlinks, for your lovely reviews. You are much appreciated, and you will all get your rewards in the mail. I bring you the next update at the darkest midnight hour, much after I should be asleep, so if it is weird I'm not responsible. But I wanted to get you guys an update! I love you all very much and I love Destiel very much, and the combination keeps me up until 4 in the morning typing away fervently. (Caffeine and an evening nap may or may not also be involved.) So please enjoy this next chapter, those of you who are reading. I know the premise of this story is bizarre, so believe me when I say - thank you. Thank you for giving this crack addict of an author a chance._

_Okay, I'll shut up now. Just know that if you review, I will personally kidnap Misha Collins* and clip off a lock of his hair for you!**_

_*No I won't._

_**Why do you want a lock of his hair, bucko? You some kinda hair pervert? Yeahhhh, I'm onto you. *squinty eyes*_

_ANYWAY, here's the chapter!_

* * *

That night, Dean had a very strange dream.

He stood in a grassy meadow with a herd of grazing cows, all different sizes and colors. A small man sat in the center of the field, and when he saw Dean, he stood up and waved. "Hey!" he called, "You must be Lucky Dean!"

Dean smiled uneasily and waved back. He could feel the cows watching him, blinking lazily with long, curly lashes. "That's what they call me." The nickname was only half-ironic; no matter how difficult the scrape, he always managed to cheat death. That was lucky enough for him.

The man walked up to Dean and shook him by the hand, grinning. He was built short and wiry, curly brown hair, gray eyes and a scraggly beard. "The pirate brothers, Lucky Dean and Doc Samuel. I'm a big fan of yours. Really."

Dean opened his mouth, then hesitated. "And who are you, again?"

He smacked his forehead and chuckled nervously. "I forgot to introduce myself! I'm, well, I'm Zeus, and…" He squinted up bashfully at Dean. "I'm kind of the reason they call you lucky."

"Zeus," Dean said.

Zeus smiled. "Yup."

Dean stared. "_The_ Zeus?"

"Yes," he said.

"The chucking-lightning-bolts, father-of-the-world's-strongest-man Zeus?"

"_Yes!_" he snapped. "Why does everybody always –" He cut himself off with a huff and crossed his arms tightly. "Anyways, I've been looking out for you, for a long time. But now, you happen to have screwed the proverbial pooch."

"The proverbial -" Dean shook his head to clear it. "What the hell did I do?"

Zeus scratched his beard nervously. "You pissed off Poseidon, Dean."

"I pissed off _Poseidon_?" Dean demanded. "The sea god? Jesus, don't you guys have somewhere to be, like Greece?"

"W-w-we go where the trade is!" Zeus sputtered back. "Wherever it's most exciting! I can't help it if my constituency moves across the world!"

Dean rubbed his temple and sighed. A cow made a low noise behind him and butted up against his elbow. "Fine. Okay. Sure. _Say_ I believe you. How did I piss him off?"

"You sacked his favorite ship," Zeus said, as though it were painfully obvious. "_Ciclope_, remember? The guys on that ship _worship_ Poseidon. You put out the captain's right eye and _set the whole thing on fire_. He can't let that stand."

"His most favorite ship in the whole world," Dean muttered. "Of course I'm the one to raid it." Some luck.

"And I can tell him to leave you alone 'til I'm blue in the face, but…" Zeus looked him in the eye, an anxious wrinkle in his forehead and a grim set to his chin. "Truth be told, he's just as powerful as me. Maybe even moreso." He exhaled heavily, and patted the cow who had wandered up next to him. "Sooner or later, you're in for a world of hurt. He's vowed to kill every last one of your men before you ever set foot in England."

"Why are you telling me this?" Dean asked. "If there's nothing you can do, why bother?"

Zeus squinted at the cloudy blue sky. "I can give you a week. Make port as soon as you can, travel as far inland as you can go and stay there. Forever."

Dean chuckled. "Are you serious?"

Zeus met his eyes. "Deadly."

And Dean woke up.

When he tried to explain the dream to Sam later that morning, Sam gave him a concerned look and told him he should really cut down his drinking. Dean tried to convey the clarity of the dream, the vibrant realness of the field, and his lingering sense that some storm was brewing on the horizon.

"Maybe it's just your conscience catching up with you," Sam said. "What you did to Gordon was pretty brutal."

"He had it coming," Dean muttered. "After what he put us through, he's lucky I only took an eye."

"I'm not saying he didn't deserve it," Sam agreed. "I'm just saying maybe your dream had more to do with _that_ than some – Greek god making a visitation. And besides…" He looked out the cabin window at the cloudy gray sky. "Maybe a storm _is_ coming. Maybe it's just the weather."

Dean still felt uneasy.

It was with that same uneasy heart that he stood on the dock and watched his men load up the ship with supplies in Belém. Everyone helped haul dry goods into the hold, from the burly bosun Jake Talley to little Joe, the blond cabin boy whose voice hadn't even cracked. Rufus, whose duties were strictly confined to the galley, got out of it by rubbing his wrists and complaining of his arthritis. Dean watched his men, his crew, his friends. Some of them he'd picked up over the last few years, seekers of fortune and cutpurses; some he'd inherited with the ship.

_You're in for a world of hurt. He's vowed to kill every last one of your men._

Dean shivered and hefted a sack of flour over his shoulder. A gust of chill wind raced over the back his neck and billowed his collar. "Bad weather," he muttered.

"Excuse me, Captain."

Dean stopped, and turned.

A black-haired man stood there, with gray-blue eyes and a blank expression. A long leather coat that hung past his wrists in the sleeve, and thick overlarge boots that came halfway up his calves, he looked as though he were in borrowed clothes. He had a large full burlap sack in one hand and a satchel slung over his shoulder. He said, "I would like passage aboard your ship." In English, no less.

"No passengers," Dean grunted. "'Scuse me, this flour is heavy. Goodbye."

Without a shift in his expression, the man held out his burlap sack automatically. "I can pay my way."

Dean huffed a laugh and shifted the flour. "So you're gonna pay me in corn, then? Or is it yams?" He reached out to swipe the satchel -

His arm yanked suddenly downward, and Dean nearly toppled over. He dropped the sack.

It clinked.

He set down his flour.

He knelt down, unknotted the top of the sack, and peered in.

Gold. Perfectly minted coins of pure Spanish gold, gleaming bright and new as though they had just been polished, and he took one out and bit it and son of a bitch it was gold, real gold, just a burlap sack fulla gold.

Dean laughed in disbelief. "You don't even know where we're going!"

"It doesn't matter," the man said. "I like to travel."

Dean stood up and dusted off his knees, and suddenly the entire picture made perfect sense. To be dressed like that with money like this, and not caring where he went so long as it wasn't here – well, this guy was some kind of criminal. A thief, maybe, or a con. He was paying Dean not to ask questions, and he was hitching a ride with pirates in the hopes they would turn a blind eye.

"Well," Dean said, offering his hand to shake, "welcome aboard the Impala, Mr…?"

"I am Castiel," the man said, taking his hand and shaking it with strangely intense concentration, as though he had been practicing and wanted to get it right.

Dean tried to keep a straight face. What a ridiculous cover name. "Right," he said. "I'm Captain Dean Winchester."

And the faintest quirk of a smile hinted at the corners of Castiel's mouth, and he said, "I know."

The hairs on the back of Dean's neck stood up.

Castiel walked past him and onto the gangplank, up into the ship, leaving his sack of gold without so much as a backward glance. Dean knotted the top and heaved it under his arm, watching the back of the strange man, shivering again and reminding himself to lock his cabin door tonight.

When they finally set sail, the wind was up but nothing too crazy; just enough to get some speed and put a few miles behind them. Dean informed the crew of Castiel's arrival, and put the gold in the Treasure Room (as the crew had dubbed a closet behind the armory) where it would be split evenly the next time they made port. He was a fair captain.

He also made everyone swear on their bibles not to murder Castiel and search his belongings for jewels. He was a just captain.

Castiel did not seem nearly as worried as Dean thought he should be.

After supper, Sam found Dean in his cabin, poring over maps and compasses. "So," Sam began with a smirk, "Is it still that dream that's got you all shook up?"

"Huh?" Dean looked up from his maps. "What're you talking about?"

"Oh, come on." Sam rolled his eyes and sat on the edge of the table. "You, trying to put the fear of God in that new guy. What was that about?"

"Hey, I'm just looking out for him," Dean protested. "As is my captainly duty!"

Sam snorted. "Duty my ass. You were practically threatening him. You told him the crew would murder him for his valuables!"

"No, I made them _swear not to_," Dean corrected. "And for all I know, they will anyways. We are _pirates_, Sam. There is no honor amongst thieves."

"Sure," Sam agreed brightly. "That's why you get murdered and mutinied against so often. Cuz our crew is so loosely principled."

Dean sighed and wiped a hand down his face. "Okay, okay, I get it. Here's the truth." He took a deep breath. "The guy said he knew me."

Sam frowned. "What?"

"Or, maybe – what he actually said was –" Dean closed his eyes, remembering. "I said I was Captain Dean Winchester, and he said, '_I know_.' In that freaky-ass deep voice of his. Like he's… planning something." He turned back to his maps and picked up his quill, ready to jot down more notes. "Anyway, I just thought I'd head it off by letting him know he's being watched."

Sam nodded slowly, watching Dean with that all-too-familiar concerned look of his.

"It's fine," Dean said, refusing to meet his eyes. "Stop hovering and go doctor or something."

Sam sighed and stood up, just as the wind began to howl against the windows. "You should go relieve Jake at the helm. The rain's really picking up."

Dean waved him away. "Jake'll be fine. Besides, it's just a squall. We'll be through it in a half hour."

….

**Three Hours Later**

"IS THAT AN ISLAND?" Dean screamed against the banshee wail of the storm, clenching the wheel with white knuckles, sporadic bucketfuls of seawater splashing in his face. "ARE WE ABOUT TO RUN AGROUND ON A FUCKING ISLAND?"

"Starboard!" Jake shouted. "We need to bear starboard, NOW!"

"I _AM_ TURNING STARBOARD!" Dean bellowed. "IF WE RUN AGROUND I WILL KILL YOU AND USE YOUR DEAD BODY AS A FUCKING RAFT, TALLEY!"

"Noted, Captain!"

"DON'T CAPTAIN ME, HELP ME TURN THIS GODDAMN SHIP!"

…..

**Five Hours Later**

The crew laid on the deck in a soggy heap, while the dawn slanted peacefully over the waterlogged deck.

Dean spat something slimy and green into his hand. "Seaweed," he croaked. "I think I ate seaweed."

Sam moaned and pushed himself up, supporting himself on the mast. "It's over," he groaned. "We survived."

The crew slowly gathered themselves up and checked each other. No one seemed to be missing, but there were a few broken bones and lumps on the head. Those who were able helped the injured to their hammocks and began to wearily unlash the sails. Castiel had been ordered to stay out of the way in Sam's cabin until they rode the storm out, and he had obediently stayed there; now he poked his head out and watched the bruised pirates gingerly get back to work.

Dean stood at the helm, trying his best to look unfazed and failing miserably. The blue sea sparkled brilliantly in the morning light, peaceful and pretty like the whole thing had never happened. Joe walked up, mop in hand, his blond hair turned dark water and plastered to his scalp.

"You think that was the worst of it, Captain?" he asked.

Dean nodded. "Look at the sky. Clear as a piece of goddamn glass. Yeah, it's over."

"Then I only have one question." Joe looked at the water all around them, blue all the way to the horizon in every direction. "Where are we?"

Dean blinked.

He looked around, consulted the position of the sun, and checked his compass.

Finally he answered, and all he said was:

"A world of hurt."


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: _My wonderful, wonderful readers! Thank you for your reviews, my stellar starlings. Your rewards are forthcoming._

_In slightly related news, I thought I might warn you that this is going to be a long, long story. I can already tell. I'm going to try and keep the updates coming in a timely manner, and I WILL finish this thing no matter what, but of course your reviews go a long way toward making this process speedy. I'll try not to beg you shamelessly every chapter because that gets old, but reviews are what show me that people are actually interested in what I'm writing. It makes me feel less like I'm just casting these chapters out into the ether, and more like I have an audience. So now you know!_

_In less related news, the story's already getting away from me! Characters are already doing things I did not plan for them to do, and generally being ornery and doin' whatever they want. So STRAP IN, folks! STRRRRRAP IN! IT'S GONNA BE AN INTERESTING RIDE!_

_Also, side note: I know I promised romance, and I feel really bad for being 3 chapters in without delivering on that promise, but these things take time. I won't let you down, I swear, it's just that these characters are so fuckin' _ornery_. They won't make out unless I give them a good reason. I know, right? THE NERVE. _

_Okay, okay, I'll shut up. The chapter is below._

* * *

The Impala was a large ship, an East Indiaman whose passenger cabins had been gutted and retrofitted with cannons. Three masts, eleven hundred tons, a length that rivaled any ship of the line; it often dwarfed any man who stood at the helm, her massive wooden hull creaking beneath his feet and her enormous sails billowing above his head like the bedsheets of a giant hung out to dry. On a dark night she made a sailor feel safe, and in the searing daylight she made him utterly humble. Dean fondly referred to her as a beast.

Right now, the Impala was a mere dark speck in the expanse of glittering ocean surrounding them. A tiny speck of grime on a vast swath of sequined blue brocade. Flotsam.

"I know there's an island out there," Dean said, squinting through his telescope. He stood at the prow of the ship, which promised the best view. "We practically tasted the thing. It almost turned us into pirate jambalaya."

"But that was hours ago," Ash reminded him, shading his eyes with his hand and peering into the surf. "During that little seaweed party we were having, remember? That island could be leagues away in any direction."

Dean collapsed his telescope with a snap, and glared at Ash. "Did I ask you for your input?" he growled.

Ash grinned and scratched his belly lazily; in his ususal fashion, he'd stripped down to breeches and nothing else. "Nah, you just seemed hopelessly in need of it," he replied.

"I _am_ your captain," Dean reminded him. "You could show some respect."

"You may be captain," Ash said, "but I'm the best damn cartographer in the Caribbean. Although…" He put up his hand again and screwed up his face, examining the sky and the sea. "I'm not entirely positive we're in the Caribbean anymore."

Dean groaned and closed his eyes.

Meanwhile, an unrelated situation was brewing belowdecks, and in a moment it would boil over and froth up onto the deck in a mad chaotic cacophony. The bystanders of the incident, who apparently all witnessed similar yet slightly differing events, would relate the tale very insistently to Dean and demand action. By cobbling together the common elements, Dean managed to put together the basic outline of what had happened.

It seemed that Sam had gone down to the berth deck to tend to the wounded and help string up their hammocks. He had a small sickbay attached to his cabin in the deck above, the gun deck, but when many suffered from generally small complaints like this, he simply set up camp in the berth and worked there. He strode into the room purposefully and competently (the accounts were very clear on this point – Sam was a well-liked man) and attended each pirate with the attention he merited, his large hands stitching delicately and nimbly; he was steady as a rock and compellingly handsome. (This detail was volunteered by Barnes, who had a troubling case of hero worship.)

About fifteen minutes afterward, Castiel entered the berth. Accounts varied on the manner of his entrance. Some said he slipped in unnoticed and unassuming, glancing about curiously. Another said he lingered on the stairs and stared at each man piercingly, one by one, staring into the depths of his soul. In any case, he made his way to Sam and offered his help. "I have some experience," he said in his odd scraped-low voice. "If you'd like my assistance."

"Uh, sure," Sam replied, looking up from the gash on Barnes's arm. "If you don't mind. Why don't you help Joe over there? Make sure he's comfortable, find out what's wrong." That was Doc Samuel for you, smooth as ever, always grace under fire. (Again, Barnes's words.)

So Castiel approached little Joe the cabin boy, who was just in the next hammock over with a pale face and an arm curled close to his chest. "What seems to be the problem?" he asked, sitting down on the edge of the hammock.

"My arm," Joe said. He looked so pathetically small that way, and he was clearly in pain but he didn't whimper or let it bleed into his voice. He was a brave kid.

Castiel looked at Joe. Some said he gave him a passing glance, but a few insisted that he leaned in closed and skewered Joe with his burning gaze, inspecting him so thoroughly with his eyes that Joe blushed and cowered. "Show me," he said.

After a moment of uneasy hesitation, Joe held out his arm.

Castiel examined the arm, feeling the muscles gingerly, extending the fingers, noting when Joe winced or sucked in a breath. A few seconds later he said, "I think it may be broken along the forearm. A very small break. Wear it in a sling until it heals."

"Thank you, Mr. Castiel," Joe said. "I'll see what Sam thinks of that." Over by Barnes's side, still stitching carefully, Sam smiled to himself and a dimple formed in the corner of his cheek.

Castiel nodded. "Would you like some spirits, for the pain?"

Joe shook his head and smiled forcibly. "No thanks, I gotta get back up to lookout in a few minutes here. I don't want a cloudy head way up there."

Sam snorted quietly, and Barnes could tell he had no intention of letting the kid climb up to the crow's nest with a broken arm.

And then Castiel stood, patted Joe's good shoulder, and said, "You're a strong woman."

Sam looked up.

Barnes looked up.

Joe's face was hot and red, his fists clenched, and he bit out, "Oh, you think that's funny, do you? Callin' me a girl? Just 'cause I don't shave I'm not a real man?"

Castiel stared at him blankly. "No," he answered. "You're not a real man because you're a woman."

Everyone else in the berth looked up.

Castiel looked around, realizing the berth had fallen silent. "Was it a secret?" he asked. "I didn't know."

Sam stood up. "Mr. Castiel," he said slowly, "I think you're confused. That's Joey. Joseph Harvelle. A young man."

"I apologize," Castiel said sincerely. "I didn't realize you believed her to be a man. I assumed it was impossible for you not to know. I'm sorry."

And now everyone was staring at Joe, little Joey, who was fiercely red and petite and smooth faced, and something like doubt and understanding crept over Sam's face, and he said quietly, "Joe?"

"It's not true!" Joe insisted, tears welling in his eyes. "He's a goddamn liar! We're, we're pirates! We know each other! We've fought together! Why are you listening to this guy? I'm as much of a man as you are!"

Sam, with terrible compassion in his big soft eyes, asked softly, "Can you prove it?"

Joe stared at him, with a pitiful and pleading face.

The entire berth held their collective breath.

And Joe pressed his hands tightly to his face, and his chin trembled, and she shook her head no.

…

After hearing all the accounts, none of which were asked for but all of which were loudly volunteered, Dean called a meeting of the crew on the top deck, the weather deck. He ordered them all to simmer down and shut up, and he stepped up onto a crate he kept handy for addressing the crew. He took a deep breath.

"It has come to my attention," he began, "that our cabin boy, Joseph Harvelle, is in fact a cabin _girl_ by the name of Joanna."

A group gasp went up, followed by scandalized mutterings. Jo herself was not present, but hidden away in the sick bay. Castiel looked downward at his feet, and Sam crossed his arms and looked up at the sky.

"Simmer!" Dean barked. "Now, I'm the captain, and on this ship I am the law. Therefore, many of you have come forward to me to plead Joanna's case. In the navy, Joanna would be in some serious trouble for these kinds of antics. She would face a tribunal, and probably spend the rest of her journey in the brig until we made port and she could face the crown's justice."

The faces of the crew were grave. A few crossed themselves.

Dean clasped his hands behind his back. "However, it is a point of pride on my ship that we are _not_ the navy. And in case you haven't noticed during the short interims between your _gossip sessions_, we are dead in the water without any sign of shore, without bearings, without any idea of where in the entire ocean we may be." He eyed them all sternly. "We've got over a dozen men injured from the storm. We need all hands on deck. So Jo is going to continue to sail with us just like she did before, and if you have a problem with that, you take it up with me." He drew his sword with the satisfying slinking sound of metal skating on metal, and the edge glinted in the sunlight. "Am I understood?"

"Aye," the crew muttered.

And then, from above, came Andy Gallagher's echoing shout. "Land!" he called. "I see land, to the east!"

Everyone raced starboard, and Dean whipped out his telescope.

Sure enough, there in the distance –

A brief stripe of green.

"Hoist the topsails!" Dean bellowed. "We're headed east!"

The crew scrambled to their positions and hoisted the flagging sails, pulling them as taut as they would go, trying harness the ever-so-faint breath of wind that teased at the ship.

Whatever island it was, it didn't matter. They didn't even have to land, just so long as they could make out the shape and find it on the map – they were saved. Everything was going to be fine. Dean tried to ignore the uneasy twisting in his gut, and the calmness of the water, and how very little the ship was moving.

"An island."

Dean whipped around.

Castiel was standing there, uncomfortably close, watching Dean carefully like a specimen in a glass jar.

"Hopefully," Dean said, eyeballing him. "Is there something you need?"

Castiel just gazed at him evenly with his eerily blue eyes. "No."

"You know…" Dean collaped his telescope and crossed his arms, turning to face the odd man. "You really kicked the hornet's nest around here today. You should tread carefully."

Castiel cocked his head slightly, and his mouth turned up at the corner. "Is that a threat, Captain Winchester?"

A small unexpected shudder ran up Dean's spine, and he struggled to keep his face stony. "No," he replied calmly. "It's a word of caution. I don't need to threaten, because if you get on my bad side, then trust me… " He smirked, and gave Castiel a cocky wink. "You'll know it, sweetheart."

The curve at the corner of Castiel's mouth deepened, and he said, "You are exactly as I heard you would be."

"Oh?" Dean raised an eyebrow. "And how was I described?"

Castiel stared straight into his eyes, he said, "Dangerously arrogant, and masculine to a fault."

Dean chuckled hollowly and leaned back against the rail of the ship. "That's all they told you?" he asked lightly, playfully, a forced casualness. "No one mentioned my paranoia or my violence towards strangers?"

Castiel looked away finally, looking out over the waves. "That goes without saying."

And it was something, something in his self-assured way of speaking and his completely irritating composure that flared up inside of Dean and burst through his mask of indifference, and suddenly he had one fist knotted in Castiel's collar and his knife pressed to Castiel's throat and he snarled, "I don't know who the _fuck_ you've been talking to, or what the fuck you're doing on my ship, but it's _my fucking ship_ you little shit, so you watch the way you speak to me."

Castiel gazed calmly, completely unmoved, even as the steel of Dean's blade edged with crimson.

"You make one wrong move," Dean growled, twisting his fist tighter, "and I'll cut your throat myself."

And Castiel said, deadly serious, without a hint of humor, "I think you'd regret that."

They stared each other down, locked together, neither willing to acquiesce.

Finally Dean shoved him away and made a face of disgust. "Go apologize to Jo. It's the least you owe her."

For the first time, Castiel seemed surprised. "It was unintentional. I didn't mean to expose her."

Dean snorted, and took out his telescope. "Well. You can go try and convince her of that." He set his sights on the green stripe on the horizon. "But the damage is done."

He stared out at the island until he felt Castiel turn away and heard his boots make their way across the deck, and then he sagged and leaned against rail and unscrewed his canteen with unsteady hands. He took a deep draught of rum, and doubted he would sleep easy until that bastard was off his ship. A month, tops, before they made a city where he could be unceremoniously booted off the Impala. Couldn't be more than a month.

He was very, very wrong.


	4. Chapter 4

****A/N:_ Thank you for the reviews! I love you guys, and I wish I had time to respond to each one with a personal message, but I've tried that before and it roughly translates into me having no life. (The joke here is that I make it sound like I have a life! LOLZ.) So INSTEAD you guys get mass imaginary gifts. This week's gift is an Honest-to-Goodness Life Size Pirate Sam With Detachable Beard (TM). Now you too can enjoy the sexy abdominal muscles of Sam Winchester in the privacy of your own home, and you can choose whether or not he's really roughing it like a ruffian or cutting it like a corsair! ORDER YOURS NOW. _

_In other cashews, I'm sorry about this chapter being a day later than the others, but as compensation it's longer than usual! Hooray! Also, if any of you are following along in your SparkNotes of the Odyssey, you will see that I'm not following it strictly. Your first hint should have been the pirates. But anyway, as far as the monsters go I'm mixing and matching and reorganizing as I see fit. So... yeah. SUCK ON THAT, HOMER!_

_I'm sorry. It's late. I need more sleep. _

_Here's the chapter, and sorry for the wait!_

* * *

**The Middle of Nowhere, Hopefully in the Caribbean Sea**

Sam and Dean ate dinner in Dean's cabin, rather than in the crowded mess area of the berth deck. "Joey Harvelle," Sam mumbled in amazement around his pickled asparagus. "A woman. I just can't get over it."

Dean grunted in affirmation and gnawed at his salted pork.

"I mean, in retrospect it seems so obvious," Sam went on. "He was – I mean, she – _she_ was so private, never liked to swim, and of course those delicate features…"

Dean just grunted again, using his knife to pick at a bit of pork stuck in his teeth.

Sam chewed, and looked at Dean closely. "Did you ever think it was strange?"

Dean shrugged noncommittally and sawed at the pork.

Sam threw down his silverware with a clatter. "You _knew?_"

"She was freaking obvious!" Dean exclaimed defensively. "I've been with enough women to know one when I see one!"

"How long?" Sam demanded. "How long did you know?"

Dean stared at his plate, and rotated his jaw. "I had my suspicions the day she signed on. About three weeks out to sea I got her drunk –"

"Oh dear Christ," Sam groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"And she _confessed everything_," Dean finished testily. "She was terrified I was going to maroon her, but I told her she could stay so long as she did her work." He pointed his knife at Sam. "She's worth three boys that size, and you know it. She can climb the rigging like a monkey and nothing scares her, and she's not a superstitious ninny like most other sailors for hire." He bit off a large hunk of pork and said around his mouthful, "And thanksh to me, she'sh inshanely loyal and won't touch a liquor with a ten foot pole."

"Okay, so you didn't…" Sam struggled with the words. "You two never…"

Dean chewed.

"Dean," Sam said.

Dean swallowed. "Well," he said. "I can't say never."

Sam threw his hands up in the air.

"What?" Dean protested. "It was only a couple of times."

"That is so, so – unethical!" Sam stammered. "You're her _captain_."

"We're pirates." Dean speared some asparagus with his fork. "Unethical is kinda in the job description."

"You're a pirate, _I'm_ a doctor," Sam snapped. "And you should have told me. What if she'd been seriously hurt? What if I'd started to undress her in front of the crew?" Then he suddenly went pale. "What if she'd gotten _pregnant_?"

"She can't," Dean remarked. "Barren."

Sam gave him a Serious Look. "Really, Dean. Is that what she told you?"

Dean slowed his chewing.

Sam snorted. "Wow. You really are lucky, aren't you?"

Dean frowned and stared into space. "S'what they say," he murmured. "You ever wonder about that, Sammy?"

Sam shrugged, and took a healthy swig of port wine. "Fortune favors the bold. Or in your case, the insanely reckless."

…..

The air was so flat and motionless that it took until nightfall to reach the island. Dean stood at the helm and marveled; he had never seen a sea this calm. Castiel meandered about uselessly on the deck, his eyes on island ahead of them, his very presence like an itch on Dean's skin.

The sea itself was strange, Dean had noticed. Ever since the storm, the hue had been slightly different, slightly… iridescent. Not like an oil slick, but like when you squinted through the telescope and the lens bent the light reflecting off the waves and when it filtered between your eyelashes it seemed to hold color, tiny rainbows.

That was how it seemed to Dean, anyways. He rubbed his eyes and blamed it on the setting sun.

The island ahead of them slowly grew, and it was thick and lush and green, a long white stretch of gently sloping beach curling around its perimeter. Here and there bushes with bright white flowers spilled out of the jungle; the flowers were so numerous and such a pure white they could be spotted from the ship, and some of the crew claimed to be able to smell them, a scent like lilacs and ginger blossoms.

Soon enough the sun sank below the purple horizon, and the island began to glow. Not all at once, but in distinct clumps – deep in the jungle, the smoky orange glow of lamplight. A town.

"Civilization," Sam noted.

"Looks like," Dean agreed.

"We should weigh anchor and wait until dawn," Sam said.

The dark night swallowed the ship suddenly, like a cloak thrown over the eyes, and even the bright stars in the sky looked distant and cold.

"Or," Dean suggested, "we could act like actual pirates and sack the place."

Sam snorted. "Sure, Dean, let's attack a strange island in the middle of who the hell knows where with a quarter of our crew injured. That sounds like a smart idea."

Dean sighed and reached for his canteen. "Just sayin'," he muttered. "It wouldn't kill us to fucking _pirate_ once in awhile."

"It might here."

Sam and Dean spun around.

Castiel was standing behind them, his blue eyes almost luminescent in the dark.

"You know this place?" Dean demanded.

"No," Castiel said. "That's what worries me."

"Who are you, Ferdinand fucking Magellan?" Dean asked incredulously. "Nobody asked you, fuckwad."

"Whoa," Sam interjected, stepping forward. "Take it easy, Dean."

"No, I _won't _take it easy," Dean snapped back. "He's been breathing down my neck all day and I am the captain." He glared at Castiel. "_I_ am the captain and I'm calling the shots, not some – some Brazilian goat-fucker with a bad haircut!"

Castiel frowned. "I have never had relations with any ruminant, goat or otherwise."

Dean gritted his teeth. "You _know_ what I _mean_," he growled, locking eyes with Castiel, his right hand clenching into a fist, the muscles in his arm tensing, pulling back, coiling –

"Do not strike me." The voice that came from Castiel's mouth was black iron, and his eyes flashed hard and angry.

"Hey hey hey," Sam said quickly, his voice rising in pitch, his hands going to each of their shoulders. "Let's not sta–"

"Or what?" Dean challenged, pressing closer, pressing against Sam's restraint.

Castiel set his jaw, and his shoulders tightened. "Or I will strike back."

"HEY!" Sam barked, almost shouting. "That's ENOUGH, from the BOTH of you!" He grabbed Dean and dragged him away from the helm, shouting, "ASH! Take the wheel for a minute!"

Dean never broke eye contact with Castiel.

The corner of Castiel's mouth turned up.

That _little bitch_.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Sam demanded, stepping in front of Dean and blocking his line of sight. "What the fuck are you thinking, getting in some petty fistfight with this guy? In front of the _crew?_"

"He has it coming!" Dean insisted. "C'mon, he is _begging_for it, Sam! You saw him!"

Sam crossed his arms. "Look, I don't know what kind of power struggle you're having with this _complete stranger_ right now, but face the facts. The minute you hit him, you lose. He wins. He wins because a captain doesn't _brawl_. A jealous drunk brawls. A captain commands, and his commands are obeyed."

Dean exhaled out of his nose and looked away.

"Throw him in the brig if you want, I don't care." Sam shrugged. "Hell, break out the ol' whip and give him forty lashes, if you feel that strongly. But remember who you are."

Dean nodded and picked at his thumb.

"Hey, Cap'n?" Ash called from the helm. "What're we doin', exactly? Should I be steering this puppy toward the drink or runnin' her aground?"

Dean considered. "Weigh anchor," he called. "And tell Jake to assemble the crew."

…..

It was decided that a small contingent would go ashore, in search of a tavern or public house where they could find someone with a map or any indication of where in the world they were. The contingent would return to the ship and indicate if it was safe for everyone else to come ashore and rest on solid ground awhile, but if not they had plenty of supplies in the hold and could flee quickly if necessary. If the contingent did not return by sunset the next day, they would send a follow-up party to rescue them. If _that _party did not return, they were to leave the island and sail onward.

The crew grumbled at this, muttering about "deserting kinsmen" and "ain't right" but sullenly agreed.

Sam was put in charge of choosing the contingent. He chose himself, obviously; Ash, for his language skills; Andy Gallagher, for his ability to make friends and persuade people; and a couple of new men named Zeddmore and Spangler in case they purchased anything that needed carrying. The rest of the crew was dismissed to their posts.

As the crowd on deck dispersed, Jo made her way to Sam. He watched as the men parted around her, a few giving her long looks as they passed her, and the way she carried herself – chin up, back straight, defiant, scared.

When she reached him, Sam offered her half a smile.

Jo's chin went even higher. "Excuse me, Dr. Winchester," she said. "I would like to be a member of the contingent."

Sam's eyebrows shot up. "Since when am I Dr. Winchester?" he asked. "And I already selected the men."

Jo's cheeks pinkened. "Look, Sam," she said fiercely, "I'm way more handy in a fight than _Ed Zeddmore_. That guy's basically a wet noodle with a beard. Harry Spangler would sooner piss his pants than swordfight. And –" She faltered, her mouth twisting up and her hands clenching and unclenching.

Sam waited. "And what?"

Her nostrils flared, and she looked up at him with imploring eyes. "And I don't want to stay aboard tonight." She swallowed. "Please."

Something white-hot and vengeful flared up inside of Sam, and he suddenly understood every time Dean had embarrassed him by hunting down his bullies and threatening to cave in their skulls. "Is someone harassing you, Jo?" he asked, low and urgent. "Did somebody threaten you?"

Jo huffed and avoided his eyes. "It's not somebody, it's everybody," she said. "Mostly the ones I don't know real well." She shook her bangs down into her eyes, and put her hand to the hilt of knife in her belt. "It's bad luck to have a woman aboard the ship, Sam. Especially for the woman. Don't get me wrong, I can defend myself, it's just that… I'd like to get away, for tonight."

Sam put a hand to her shoulder.

Jo looked up at him, her eyes big and her mouth set tight, and for a second Sam didn't know how he'd ever thought she was a boy.

"We leave in five." He smiled and squeezed her shoulder.

"Thank you," Jo croaked.

…

The contingent took a small boat and rowed to shore, since no sign of a dock could be found, and walked along the beach looking for a road into town. After awhile, they seemed to find some opening or trail and disappeared into the thick of the jungle, out of view.

The night passed, and the sun came up.

The afternoon wore on.

The sun began to set.

"Okay," Dean announced. "Those idiots officially got themselves kidnapped, and now we have to go save them. Barnes, man the helm. Talley, Hendrickson, you're coming with me."

"But I don't know how to man the helm!" Barnes squawked.

"Just be a man, and stand at the helm!" Dean shouted in exasperation. "Jesus. You're just keeping it warm until I get back."

"I'm coming with you," said a man behind him.

Dean didn't even have to turn around to recognize that stupid gravelly voice.

"No, you're not," he said. "You're a passenger, not a pirate."

Castiel walked toward him. "I'm very familiar with islands," he said. "I can be useful to you."

Dean considered his options. Take Castiel with, where Dean could keep an eye on him, or leave him aboard the ship, where he could try and stage a mutiny. Even from the brig, this guy could probably stage a mutiny.

"Alright," Dean growled. "Come along, then. I always wanted a human shield."

The four rowed to shore in stony silence. The fragrance of the white flowers broke over them in waves, lilac and ginger blossom just as the others had described. They searched along the beach and found the opening the previous group had found, their footprints still fresh in the damp earth. It was a narrow dirt trail through the underbrush, only large enough for single file.

Dean made Castiel walk in front.

The trail snaked through the forest in loops and whorls, over gigantic tree roots and under thick overhanging branches. In the near-dark, they struggled not to fall over their own feet. The clicks and cries of jungle fauna followed them along the path; every so often a monkey would let out an ear-piercing screech and all four would jump, swords raised.

Finally, they could see a lit clearing up ahead, and as they approached they saw it was ringed with torches, each one staked into the ground haphazardly. People milled about in the center, chattering and socializing quietly in the flickering yellow light.

The pirates crouched at the edge of the clearing, and watched them.

They had deep brown skin, and they clothed themselves in small swathes of fabric that didn't leave much to the imagination. With the combined heat of the jungle and the torches, it was understandable. They seemed to be having some sort of feast; dishes of strange-looking pastes were scattered around the circle, and they scooped it out with their hands. In the very center was a large shallow bowl of the white flowers, and Dean watches as the villagers took handfuls of blossoms and ate those too. There was something odd about the villagers, and for awhile Dean couldn't quite place it, until he realized…

They were all smiling.

"This is _weird,_" Hendrikson whispered.

"They don't have any weapons," Jake whispered. "Do you think they have guards in the trees?"

That's when Dean spotted a flash of pink skin. There, sitting on the other side of the circle, smiling away –

Ash. No – Ash, Sam, Andy, Jo. Talking. Smiling. Eating away!

Dean stood up, and disregarded the warning hisses of his companions.

He strode across the circle and around the bowls of food, ignoring the gasps of the villagers. "What are you guys doing?" he demanded. "We've been waiting for you!"

Jake, Hendrickson, and Castiel caught up to him, glancing about nervously.

"Dean!" Sam exclaimed. "Oh my God, you won't believe this place!" His shirt was tied around his waist, and his shoulders were sunburned. "It's incredible!"

"It's a _jungle_," Dean said. "We've seen jungle."

Ash stood up, swaying slightly. "No, man," he protested, "this culture is like – so peaceful, hospitality is their thing."

The villagers were approaching the newcomers cautiously, peering at them with slanted shoulders and small steps.

"We've been accepted into the tribe," Andy said, beaming.

Hendrickson stared bug-eyed. "We don't have time for the tribe," he said. "We're trying to get to England, remember?"

"Oh, relax," Jo chided, munching on a handful of nuts. "We can't leave yet or we'll offend them. Like Ash said, they're reaaaally into hospitality."

Sure enough, a little girl who looked to be five years old had walked up to Castiel, and she shyly pressed a white flower into his hand.

"What is this?" Castiel asked.

"It's like candy," said Andy. "They're really sweet, and they grow everywhere."

"Eat it," Ash urged him, "or you'll upset them. It's like, some kinda symbol of friendship."

Two children approached Hendrickson and Jake. Dean felt something soft brush against his hand, and he looked down to see a little boy giving him a flower as well. He felt the eyes of several dozen villagers on him, and closed his hand around it, a bead of sweat growing on his brow.

"Just take a bite, you guys," said Sam. "It's good, I swear. And it shows them you're peaceful."

Castiel was chewing on his flower. "It tastes good," he said slowly. "And familiar."

Dean lifted the flower to his mouth. The smell was intoxicating really, and everyone else was eating it and they seemed to be fine and he _really_ didn't want to piss off the villagers when he was outnumbered and surrounded. So he opened his lips and bit into a petal –

Crushed sugar, sweet, on his tongue, an indistinct beautiful blurry flavor sharpening into -

a cookie, yes, a cookie his mother had once given him as a child and she stroked his hair,

_Dean_, she said, and the flower tasted exactly like her voice, golden soft and honey warm to the touch,

and then the flavor slipped away

with an aftertaste of

_happy_

And the world was good and Dean laughed and forgot and washed down the memory with palm wine, and they ate and ate and ate.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: _My wonderful, charming, salacious readers! May your children be blessed with webbed toes! You make me happy in my heart and bring me such joy that those of you who review this chapter will receive a very special, one-of-a-kind_ Sexually Frustrated Dean Winchester (TM). _This Dean knows what he wants but juuuust can't seem to get it! Tease your Dean by wearing lingerie around the house, interrupting his dates, or blowing an air-horn in his ear every time he's about to climax. Double the fun when you order _Unable To Understand The Concept of Personal Space Castiel (TM)! _Balls have never been this blue, folks._

_In other news, I've realized that this should probably be categorized as "Adventure" rather than humor, so I'm swapping genres. I apologize to any of you I've led astray. It's a humorous adventure, but somehow the adventure started coming first. More humor on the way, I swear, it's just that characters keep tryin'a be all serious on me, harshing my buzz, man. Screw them! If they don't start behaving, I'll make them all wear pretty dresses and high heels. Jo will be the most outraged out of all of them. _

_Please enjoy this chapter, and allons-y!_

* * *

**Time Passes**

The island has no name and no season, no turn of weather or swelling of the tide, and the distinction between week and month and day and night becomes ever more meaningless until Castiel knows only the melting of light into dark and back into light, and the spinning skies above and the soft earth below. He sinks into the mossy bed of the world's cradle and for the first time since his transformation, he forgets to pine for the ocean.

It becomes more difficult to sort out when things are happening. Things that came before are now in the future, and the future is a dusty, forgotten dream; perhaps really everything is happening all at once. Life occurs in brief vivid hours of complacency.

The complacency is not perfect.

There is a time when they all collapse in a heap in a clearing, staring up at the stars. Castiel finds himself nestled between warm bodies and his skin clings to other bare skin and he feels safe, like a child, connected, at peace. They breathe slower and sigh as they fall asleep one by one. Gently, Castiel lets his head loll to his left, his eyelids heavy, his heartbeat matching rhythm with the night.

Dean is awake. He is staring at Castiel.

He is piled nearby in the heap, only a few inches away; one of Sam's arm is wrapped around Dean's knee while the other is slung over Castiel's leg, and the small girl with her head nestled on Dean's chest has her feet tucked under Castiel's waist. Dean's arms are draped over her, but his eyes are fixed firmly on Castiel.

"What is it?" Castiel asks quietly.

Dean's expression is one of… searching. "Why do you hate me?"

Castiel considers. He once had definable, exacting reasons, but they have grown vague in the island's peace. He examines his feelings, and answers, "Because you're a bad person."

Dean stares, uncomprehending.

"You have done hurtful things," Castiel explains in a low voice. "Not only for profit, but for the pleasure of causing pain. I find this reprehensible. You don't deserve to be a captain."

And a darkness blooms behind Dean's eyes, and his mouth sags a little, and Castiel is surprised to see a measure of hurt he never thought it would be possible to provoke. He is just as surprised to realize that he feels regretful for provoking it. Dean looks away and turns his face up to the stars.

The conversation is finished. Castiel closes his eyes.

"Revenge is a funny thing."

Castiel opens his eyes again.

Dean is still looking at the stars, and he softly strokes the little girl's back. "You go your whole life with this pain," he murmurs, "this pain that you carry around in your stomach, and you think – if I can just give it back to the person who gave it to me –" He squeezes his eyes shut and clenches his teeth. "If I can just find them I can force it into their hands and make them take it back and I'll be rid of it." He swallows. "But pain isn't an object. You can't give it back. It's a disease. You can pass it on and spread it around but you won't be cured, you won't ever be cured that way."

A clear memory burns at the back of Castiel's mind. "You took someone's eye," he said. "Were you trying to cure yourself then?"

Dean's eyes snap to Castiel's. "That was Gordon. That was different."

Confusion. "How?"

"That wasn't revenge. That was a warning." Dean's eyes are sharp now, glittering. "That was mercy."

Castiel frowns. "I don't understand your definition of mercy."

"I could have killed him," Dean says. He snorts. "I _should_ have killed him. He keeps trying to kill us. But in the end, I couldn't do it. So I took his eye, so he would always remember that I could've killed him and he'd leave us alone."

"You should have killed him." The words are out of Castiel's mouth the instant he thinks them.

Dean's eyebrows furrow inward. "What?"

"If you were truly justified, you should have killed him," Castiel says. "Now he lives in agony, and he spends his time plotting dark and terrible revenge."

"So I've heard," Dean mutters. He considers Castiel for a silent moment, watching his face in the dark. "Do you still think I'm a bad person?"

"I don't know," Castiel admits. "Why does it matter?"

Dean closes his eyes, and adjusts his position under the sleeping girl. "I don't want you to kill me," he mumbled. "Even if you think I'm bad, please don't kill me."

Castiel lays silent until Dean's chest rises and falls more slowly, long even breaths, and he is certain he is asleep.

In the warm, thick night, hidden under the gentle sighs of dozens of slumbering bodies and the chirping and snapping of the surrounding jungle, he whispers, "I can't promise that."

….

Dean has never been as contented as he is now.

He doesn't have to reflect on his previous life to know it. He can feel it, in his bones, the deep kind of profound peace that completely surpasses any peace before it. He knows vaguely that he will have to leave the island eventually, but he does not look forward to the day. This island is special.

The whole crew is happy here. Even Castiel, who had seemed permanently stiff and reserved, is happy here. Most importantly, Sam is happy. He tosses the children up on his shoulders and runs so fast they shriek. A few times Jo slings her arms around Sam's neck and he carries her around on his hip, grinning and telling everyone, "Look, guys! I've got a pet monkey!" And she makes ook-ook noises and grins too.

It's harder and harder for Dean to keep the days straight. He hasn't been keeping such good track of how many there have been and where they might be on a calendar, but he tries to remember what day of the week it is so he can have a schedule. On Mondays (or when he thinks it's Monday), he likes to go down to the beach and find shells. On Thursdays he helps Ash and Andy collect flowers for the evening gathering. Tuesdays, he goes to the weaving hut where the local girls work and he tells them they're pretty as peaches in a language they don't quite understand the meaning of, but they can read enough in his smile and they blush and giggle and give him shy little kisses on his cheeks and shoulders. Every Friday the whole village stays up all night dancing in the valley until they collapse in an exhausted heap and sleep piled together like a pack of dogs. But pretty soon he's losing track again and he starts using the activities to tell him what day it is and all of the sudden there's two Tuesdays this week and no Monday and every day is Thursday.

It's alright. It doesn't really matter anyways.

Strange things happen, but it doesn't bother Dean too much. Henrickson grows out his beard, and Jake starts to live with a village woman named Shama. Ash and Andy are obsessed with the white flowers; most everybody eats them after dinner, but those two are constantly munching handfuls of petals, putting blossoms in their hair, making necklaces out of them. They write songs about them.

Castiel's presence still bothers Dean, but in a different way, Dean sees now. It's the same itch, but with less sting. He buzzes on the edge of Dean's vision and Dean is constantly aware of him. It's unpleasant, uncontrollable, he just… He can't scratch it. He's always itchy around the guy.

One Friday night, Dean asks Castiel why he hates him.

Castiel answers. Dean can't really remember what he said. He remembers feeling hollow and achey, but the next morning he feels fresher, like something was mended.

It comes and goes. On a Monday Castiel walks out to the beach with him. Dean crouches down to dig shells out of the white sand and watches Castiel out of the corner of his eye.

Castiel is careful, conscientious. He unbuttons his shirt and folds it into a neat square and sets it well above the tide. He steps out of his pants, folds them, and sets them on his shirt. The sun gleams on his pale shoulders, his languid arms, and he squints toward the ocean. Dean is surprised to see contour of his muscles on his wiry frame; he had him pegged as an aristocrat. The itch worsens.

Castiel stands there for awhile, just staring out to sea.

"You gonna get in already?" Dean calls sharply. If he would just jump in the water, Dean wouldn't be so goddamn itchy.

"I want to," Castiel says. He sits down in the sand and pulls his knees up to his chest.

He sits there for hours.

He never gets in the water.

Dean is so frustrated he wants to grab him by the shoulders and drag him into the water and pull him under and drown him. He's not sure why. And he's not sure why he pictures himself drowning too, out of spite, sinking to the bottom just so he can drag Castiel with him, teach him a goddamn lesson, grapple with his thrashing limbs until he grows weak and stops fighting and they sink, sink, no air, into the black deep.

Strange things are happening.

It's a Tuesday, or maybe it's Thursday – yes, it's definitely Thursday – when Jake and Dean are wandering through the jungle, exploring hidden overgrown trails, and they hear a noise. A distinctly human noise, a voice. They follow it, stealthy and quiet, and they stumble upon –

Sam and Jo.

It's a small glen, a tiny clearing where fallen leaves carpet the ground and the canopy above offers dappled shade. Jo is laying on the ground, giggling, her short blonde hair fanned out around her face, and Sam is crouched over her, his palms planted on either side of her shoulder, her knees between his, his shaggy hair falling towards her eyes. He is murmuring something to her and she giggles again.

Jake and Dean exchange a glance.

She reaches up and put a hand to his chest, and she whispers something. Sam chuckles and bends down further, and buries his face in the crook of her neck, and she laughs and throws her arms around him.

Jake and Dean slowly back away and turn around and don't say a word until they are far out of earshot.

"Damn," Jake says, "I would have never guessed. Sam and Jo."

"It's clearly not what it looks like," Dean snaps. "They're friends."

Jake stops short. "Are you blind?" he asks incredulously. "They've obviously got somethin' going on."

"That's impossible," Dean stated flatly. "Sam doesn't chase after girls I've – chased."

Jake's eyes go even wider. "You and the cabin boy? Jesus, Dean. You're more messed up than I thought."

"I knew she was a woman!" Dean barked. "I always knew, okay! And don't talk to your captain that way!"

_Captain_.

The word triggers something inside Dean.

Wasn't there somewhere – weren't they supposed to go back to the ship, eventually?

Eventually.

Later.

Dean shakes off his doubt and they walk back to the village, ready for the evening gathering.

…..

_Castiel._

Castiel wakes up. He is being summoned.

_Castiel._

He walks down to the beach in the darkness. The moon is especially bright tonight, full in its halo, painting the sand with glistening silver. He steps into the water and lets the warm waves lap around his ankles.

_Castiel. You have grown negligent. _

Castiel closes his eyes, preferring not to watch the moonlight dapple across the vastness of the ebbing sea. "You gave me false information," he says.

There is a moment of silence.

_What are you speaking of?_

"Dean." Castiel feels a strange indifference to his superior, a strange strength he has not felt before. "You told me he was evil. He is not."

Another pause. _He has wronged us._

Castiel wriggles his toes in the water. "That isn't the same. You know that."

_This is not your judgment to make!_ The voice cracks at him, a whip of power. _You are a soldier. Obey your command!_

Castiel shudders, and his shoulders clench tight. "Yes, sir."

_You have tarried long enough on this isle of happy death. You have forgotten yourself._

"I am… having difficulty… remembering," Castiel whispers. "I am lost in the world."

_We can direct you onward. We can show you the path forward. Will you obey?_

Castiel opens his eyes, and stands straight and firm.

"Yes, sir."


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: _Thank you, all you resplendent reviewers! Your gifts are being shipped forthwith. This chapter, your reward for reviewing will be... A life-size _John Winchester Paternal Validation Doll (TM)_! With up to ten different spoken phrases, including "You make me proud" and "I love you, son," treat your Sam or Dean to the only present they ever _really_ wanted. (Warning: may cause Sam and Dean to collapse into sobbing balls of feels. Avoid excessive use as it will cause Sam and Dean to accuse your JWPVD of demonic possesion. Application of salt will void the warranty.)_

_I apologize in advance because this chapter is a little shorter, but I had to make the chapter break where it made the most sense. Please enjoy, and I hope you like it!_

* * *

"So how old are you, really?"

It's one of the first questions Sam asked Jo after they came to the island, and he asks her again now. They're lying side by side in the jungle, looking up through the leaves, watching the branches bob with the movement of colorful birds.

"I told you, I'm 24," she insists.

"_No_," Sam says, mock disbelief, sitting up to look at her. "That's impossible."

She laughs and punches his arm. "It's true!"

Sam looks at his arm with exaggerated shock, then looks at her. "You wanna fight?" he asks. "You wanna fight me?"

Jo growls behind a grin and puts up her fists. "Come and get it," she says. "You just woke the tiger, buddy, and now you're gonna get the teeth."

Sam swings over and pins her legs between his, straddling her, and he puts up his own fists. "Oh, you don't wanna fight me," he warns, making crazy eyes, "cuz I'll bring the _hurricane of hurt_. The tiger's no match for a hurricane."

"Ugh, you're squishing me," Jo groans, pushing at his stomach. "You win. You're so fat that you're squishing me to death."

"Hey, I'm pure muscle!" he exclaims, flexing his biceps. "_Fightin'_ muscle."

"_Eating_ muscle, maybe," she grunts.

Sam slaps his hands down on either side of her head and pushes himself up, crouched over her, his face inches from hers. "You're lucky," he says, low and dangerous, "that I don't make you take those words back."

"How?" Jo whispers, her eyes bright and devious. She puts her hand to his bare chest and trails her fingers down, tickling and light. "Torture?"

And Sam feels the muscles along his abdomen flutter, and he bends his head down to the crook of her neck and murmurs darkly against her skin, "I have ways of making you talk."

She laughs and throws her arms around his neck, and Sam can feel the way her whole body quivers with the laughter, and he presses his lips to her neck

_What am I doing_

and she doesn't notice, she's still coming down from the laughter, and her fingers snake through his hair, and Sam kisses her neck again

_Is this what she wants is this what I want _

and she sighs, and says, "Oh, Sam…"

And he knows, in that space of a breath, that he can't, and he shouldn't, and he doesn't want to, not really, not with her.

He rolls off of Jo and lies next her, and takes her hand in his, and twines their fingers together.

"Sam?"

Sam turns his head sideways. "Yeah?"

Jo is looking up at the birds. "I'm really happy. That…. you're my friend."

Sam smiles softly, and squeezes her hand. "Me too."

...

**Saturday, or maybe Tuesday**

"Okay, okay, okay," Ash says, "listen to this one." He plucks at the wooden stringed instrument the villagers use, almost like a lute or a mandolin. He cradles it in his arms, his crown of woven flowers tilted crookedly on his head, and he sings, "_Picture yourself in a boat on river, with tangerine trees and marmalade skies. Somebody calls you, you answer quite slowly. A girl with kaleidoscope eyes…" _

Dean, sitting across from him on the dirt floor, sips palm wine from a goatskin. "That's pretty weird, dude."

"Okay, okay, okay, okay," he says, "but people are gonna dig it. They're gonna feel the flowers in that song."

Andy laughs with half-closed eyes. "Are they _ever_," he agrees.

"Let's hear another one," Dean says, sloshing the wine encouragingly.

"Okay, okay." Ash rearranges his fingers, pauses for a moment, clears his throat. "Okay. This one is for Marcie." He looks toward the ceiling of the hut, and points his finger. "Marcie, you know what you did."

"Mmm-mmm," Andy says, nodding enthusiastically. "She knows it."

Ash clears his throat again. "Okay. Here it goes." He plucks a quiet, lilting melody. "_There's a lady who's sure all that glitters is gold, and she's buying a stairway… to heaven."_

Dean likes this song. The wine is buzzing in his head quite pleasantly, warming him from the inside out, and he leans back against the wall of the hut, and closes his eyes…

"What the _hell_ is wrong with you?" Zeus demands, grabbing him by the lapels.

Dean blinks and looks around.

He's in that meadow again, the sunlit meadow full of cows. Only now, instead of peacefully grazing, the cows are restless, walking with a hurried gait and lowing at each other. Oh yeah, and a short god is trying to shake the sense into him.

"Cut it out!" Dean growls, jerking away. "What are you talking about?"

"I leave you alone for one second, _one second,_" Zeus rants, "and you're practically spoon-feeding yourself to them. Why don't you just – just – just wrap yourself up in tortilla and change your name to Chimichanga?"

"I repeat, _what_ are you _talking_ about?" Dean shouts. "And what the hell is a chimichanga?"

Zeus pauses for breath and it dawns on him. His jaw goes slack and his eyes widen. "You don't even remember." He peers at Dean in wonder. "You don't even know what's going on, do you?"

"_No!_" Dean fumes, practically frothing at the mouth. A cow butts at his back, and he shoves it away. "I really don't! So could you please! Fucking! Explain!"

"Mmmm-NNNNN!" the cow says, clearly irritated.

Zeus runs a hand through his short curly hair. "Okay, so first of all. This island you're on? It –"

_Dean_.

The meadow is gone.

"Dean."

Dean opens his eyes slowly, groaning.

He's back in the hut, and it's dark now, a small torch in the corner offering the only light. Someone is kneeling, hunched over him, saying his name like a guttural curse. "Dean."

"You're interrupting," Dean mutters, and he props himself up and struggles to focus in on the face as his eyes adjust to the light.

It's Castiel. Castiel staring down at him with those big deep eyes and that stupid face. Zeus was about to tell him something really important and he was woken up by motherfucking _Castiel_.

"You know," Dean says, "sometimes I just want to strangle you with my bare hands."

Castiel frowns. "You want to kill me?"

"Nah," Dean answers. "Just strangle you a little. You could use a good strangling." He sits up and rubs his foggy head, and groans again. "What is it you want?"

"The flowers," Castiel says. "I think they're poison."

It takes Dean a few seconds to process this.

"Cas, buddy," he says slowly, "They're not poison. They're just candy. We eat them all the time, remember?"

"That's just it," Castiel says urgently, scraped and low, and Dean realizes the guy has a hand twisted in Dean's shirt. "I don't remember. Do you?"

And Dean is suddenly aware that they're here, alone, in the dark, in the warm night, and he can hear Cas breathing in and out, and Cas isn't wearing a shirt. The itch is in his bones, deep and uncontrollable and unforgiving, and the light of the torch flickers over Cas's bare shoulders and across his mouth and Dean says, "Cas."

Cas gazes back at him, confused, his mouth small and tight.

And Dean puts his hand to his shoulder, and says, "Cas."

Cas's eyes flicker to the hand.

"What… what the fuck is it with you?" Dean mumbles, half to himself, only mildly aware of what he's saying. The itch is worse than ever before. The skin under his hand is smooth and hot, burning into him, heat blooming up inside his chest just like the palm wine, fascinating, fascinating. "I just want to…" He squeezes the shoulder experimentally. It isn't enough. "I just need to…"

"Dean," Castiel growls. "_Think_. Do you remember why we came here?"

Dean begins to answer, and then his mind skitters away, like a crab scuttling under a rock. "I don't know," he says, standing up with a grunt. Then he pulls a smirk and adds, "And I don't fuckin' care."

And that's when, in one swift movement, Castiel stands up and _slams_ him against the wall, knocking the wind out of him, and he snarls, "Do you want to _live_ or _die?_"

Dean chokes, floundering breathlessly, and throws a wild punch that somehow connects with Castiel's face.

Castiel staggers backward, but his hands are still clenched in Dean's shirt and he drags Dean with him. Dean sucks a wheezy gasp into his flattened lungs and hits him again, this time squarely in the solar plexus, and is satisfied by the _oof_ sound it produces. Dean's heart hammers in his chest and when Cas's eyes meet his, livid and ice and fury, Dean has a second to think _Oh fuck_ before the back of his head smacks the dirt floor and stars burst behind his eyes.

Cas's knee digs savagely into his gut, and he grabs Dean's wrists and pins them to the floor, he's got Dean trapped, he's got blood in the corner of his mouth and his hands on Dean's wrists, and he scowls down at Dean, bloody teeth bared and wide, unmerciful pale eyes and for an instant Dean thinks

_He's going to kill me. _

_He's going to rip my throat out and kill me. _

But he stays there, staring down at Dean, panting.

Dean blinks, regains his sense and jerks his arms, wriggling his body, struggling to break free. And that's when Cas glares again, and his fingers tighten, and he growls low, a sound that hums in the pit of Dean's stomach: "Do not test me."

And suddenly Dean can't breathe again, his heart is bruising his ribs, and heat flushes his face and finally, the puzzle pieces slide into place.

"Oh," he breathes.

Cas's frown changes. "What?"

"Nothing," he says, strained. "Just realized something. Could you let me up?"

Cas makes no move to release him. "The flowers are making us forget," he says. "You have to stop eating them."

"And why exactly do you care?" Dean groans, wishing he could be anywhere but this moment. His skin is tight and he can feel the itch shivering along his spine and he knows now, he knows now what it means and he really shouldn't be here.

Cas looks at him blankly. "You're my captain. You have to lead us out of here."

"I'm _the _captain, not _your _captain," Dean retorts. "You're not one of my crew."

Castiel ignores his comment and finally, finally lets go of his wrists and stands up. "Do you know where Jake Talley is?"

Dean is taking some time to regain his breath, and he winces as he rubs the spot on his stomach where Cas kneed him. "Sure. He's living with Shama."

Castiel stares down at him. "This is Shama's hut, Dean. It's empty."

Dean sits up, and looks around.

Holy fuck.

Castiel is right, this bare hut used to be Shama's, he recognizes the fire pit and the small idol in the corner, and earlier today he and Ash and Andy were shooting the breeze and not a single one of them asked themselves where Jake had gone or why the hut was empty for them or what had happened to their friends.

"I have something to show you," Castiel says, and he offers Dean a hand up.

Dean takes it.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: _G'day, my fabulotastic readers. Items of business are the following!_

_1). Sorry this took so long to get to you! I know it's hard to believe, but I actually have friends (_I know, it's crazy_). They're my friends mostly because they have no idea what I get up to on the internets. These friends like to see me and it's very difficult to say, "No, I can't sleep over, I have Destiel to write." I AM SO WEAK. _

_2). One of my friends, one who doesn't even watch Supernatural, was having a conversation with me about that new book _50 Shades of Grey_, and I mentioned that it's widely known that it started out as a Twilight fanfic. And then, she asked me to explain what this whole "fan fiction thing" was. I started to describe to her in great detail the basic appeal of writing stories where you can make characters you love do whatever you want for comedic or erotic purposes and then I realized I sounded WAY TOO KNOWLEDGEABLE ON THE SUBJECT. Yikes. I almost exposed my _secret double life_, you guys! I'm like Batman, but instead of vigilante crimefighting I have gay erotica. _

_3). I love you guys. I just do. I really think I have some of the best readers. You guys leave such nice reviews and I wish I could snuggle each of you personally. Instead, I'm going to send you all _CyberSnuggles (TM)_. "It's almost like hugging, but without the whole hugging part!" _

_4.) Enjoy the chapter!_

* * *

Castiel leads Dean through the jungle, a winding tangled path that snakes farther than Dean has ever ventured. In the humid dark, he's forced to follow so closely that they often bump shoulders or he knocks his jaw on the back of Castiel's head. Castiel never acts as though he feels it; Dean swears a few times. His mind is growing clearer and clearer as they walk, the palm wine evaporating into foggy memory, and he tries desperately not to think about what he realized about himself when Castiel pinned him to the ground and his skin went tight.

It's difficult to stop thinking about it when his only method of navigation is to follow the man's pale bare back. He's becoming very familiar with Cas's back, the deep shadows cast by his shoulderblades and the long straight groove of his spine.

It's really not helping.

Castiel stops short, and Dean's jawbone bangs into his skull for the third time. "Fuck!"

"Quiet," Castiel mutters.

"There's no one out here," Dean hisses. "The entire village is asleep."

Castiel turns around, fixing him with a serious gaze. "That doesn't mean no one else is here."

Dean glares back defiantly, but a chill trickles up the back of his neck.

Cas turns back, pushes aside a large fern, and steps out of the jungle. It's a wide sloped beach, the far side of the island; in the night, the white sand is a muted blue, and when a cloud passes in front of the moon, it deepens to gray. To the distant left the beach gives way to tumbling cliffs, and beneath them large stone teeth jut out of the sea, uneven black silhouettes, almost as if they've been cut from the navy silk of the sky with careless scissors.

Dean frowns. "It's strange I've never been all the way out here," he whispers.

Cas gives him another serious look. "Perhaps you have. You just don't remember."

"Damnit, Cas!" Dean snaps, scrubbing the back of his neck. "Stop saying spooky cryptic shit and show me whatever it is you wanted to show me!"

Cas walks down toward the water, his footsteps leaving silent furrows in the sand. Dean focuses on following the tracks. It beats staring at Cas.

When the tracks end in sandy feet, Dean looks up and follows Cas's gaze. He's looking towards the cliffs, and Dean says, "What? Those rocks? You brought me out here to look at rocks?"

Castiel sighs in exasperation. "No, Dean. _Look." _

Dean peers towards the cliffs, just as the cloud in front of the moon drifts away and the sea is drenched in silver light, and he sees –

Some of those jagged teeth are moving. Swaying. _Bobbing_.

Dean walks forward, his feet propelling him unconsciously, he can't take his eyes off the rocks, and he gets faster and faster and before he realizes it he's in a dead run, panting and spraying sand behind him and sprinting towards the black shapes in the water.

They're ships.

Trapped amongst the rocks are _ships._

As he gets closer he can hear the creaking of waterlogged wood, the delicate whine of masts straining against their ropes, the sounds and sights and salty smell of something he had dreamed a lifetime ago, and he splashes into the water before he realizes how far out they are, how easily he could be swept into those jagged rocks and crushed, so he stands there knee-deep in the ocean and frantically begins to count them, trying to determine where one ends and the other begins, and most of all, if one is _his_.

"The Impala isn't here."

Dean whips around. Cas has caught up much faster than he expected. "How do you know?" he pants. "She could be!"

Cas isn't the slightest out of breath. "I've been here in the daylight. I checked."

"Why didn't you just tell me?" Dean demanded. "There's – there's at least five or six ships here!"

Cas raised an eyebrow. "Would you have believed me?"

"Well." Dean huffs a breath. "No. But still!" He turns back to the ships. A few have tatters in their sails, and most are low in the water, run aground and half-sunk. "So the question is… where did all these ships come from?"

"No." Cas's voice is hard and edged. "The question is, where did all the people go?"

…..

Sam wakes up to a hand clapped over his mouth.

His first instinct is to bite, grab, flip, but then he blinks and he sees Dean's face peering down at him, whispering urgently "shhh" and watching his eyes for understanding. Cas is standing next to him, keeping a lookout.

Sam nods.

Dean pulls back and removes his hand; Sam slides his arm out from under Jo and follows them deeper into the forest.

"Guys?" Sam says, when he thinks they're away from any sleepers. "What's going on?"

Dean grabs him by the arm. "Sammy," he says, low and serious. "When's the last time you ate any flowers?"

Sam thinks and shrugs. "Earlier tonight, I guess. A few hours ago."

"Okay, well. Don't eat anymore." Dean shivers, even though the night is warm, and he glances back at Castiel. "Tomorrow is Friday, which means the big gathering and we pile in the valley. I need you to sneak away, meet me by the big mango tree."

"Wait, wait, wait." Sam shakes his head and wonders if he's still dreaming. "What's this about the flowers?"

Dean opens his mouth and shuts it again with a confused look on his face. "There's something… important…" He glances helplessly at Cas. "You remember. Right?"

Cas gazes wide-eyed at Dean for a long moment, a twist of concern in his brow. "Do you really… not remember?"

"It has to do with Jake." Dean's not even talking to Sam now, he's talking to himself. "People are gone and we can't find them. We can't forget about Jake again."

And that's when Sam realizes that he hasn't seen Jake Talley in probably more than a week, and it never even occurred to him to ask where he went. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the crumpled white petals he stowed in there for a snack, and lets them tumble to the ground.

Dean stares at the petals, and clenches and unclenches his hands.

"I'm with you," Sam says.

…

The next day is very long for Dean. There is nothing he wants more than one of those fragrant, delicious flowers, the flowers that smell of lilac and ginger blossoms – spun sugar and warm dreams that melt in your mouth and smooth over the wrinkles in your mind. More than once he finds himself with a petal in his hand, his thumb gliding across its silky skin, and it takes him a long moment to let it go.

He wonders what it would take to convince Ash and Andy to let it go.

Orange and purple clouds unfurl in the sky and the sun begins to set on the island. The villagers bring out their drums and flutes, and Ash joins the other lute players; they begin to play the song of gathering, the rhythms that call to every soul on the island and ask them to dance. Palm wine is uncorked, bowls of mango sauce and mashed plantain and roasted tapir are laid out, and the chieftain lights the giant bonfire. With a great cry, the feast begins.

Dean and Castiel are busy with other things.

Sam dances with Jo, and their grinning faces glisten with sweat in the light of the fire. Henrickson laughs with the chieftain's daughter and shoots Sam a look he knows the meaning of. Sam rolls his eyes, and spins Jo like a top; the villagers cheer and hoot. But a corner of his mind is constantly in the dark night, faraway with Dean. Luckily for Sam, he has always been talented at giving a convincing impression of a happy man.

Jo tries to share her blossoms, and she doesn't believe him when he says he doesn't want any. "What's with you?" she asks, irritated. "You're a bad liar, Sam."

He doesn't have an answer for her.

Instead, he pulls her close under the pretense of music and says quietly in her ear, "Don't eat anymore flowers, Jo."

"Why?" she whispers back.

Sam grabs her by the hips and twirls her around, and when he sets her back on her feet he simply says, "Trust me. Please."

He can see in her eyes that she does.

The villagers dance and dance and dance until their feet are sore and their arms hang heavy, and then they dance to the soft valley with loamy earth and tumble into a pile together, tickling and giggling. Sam casually parts ways with them, taking the small dirt path to the big mango tree, his heart beating quick and his eyes darting at every sound. He comes to the trunk of the mango tree, and -

No one is there.

"Pssssst."

Sam looks up.

Dean and Cas are perched high up in the branches. "Sam. Come up here."

He digs his fingers into the bark and hoists himself up onto the nearest branch. Scaling the tree is nothing compared to the legwork he used to perform swinging about the rigging as a boy, but then, he was a lot lighter back then. He reaches Dean and Cas's height and settles himself on a sturdy branch.

Dean is peering down into the valley just below them, where the rest of the village is snorting and twitching its way into slumber. "I think it'll happen tonight," he says. "Whatever's going on, I think it happens on Fridays, and I think the flowers keep us from seeing it."

Sam can see Jo from here. Her blonde hair gleams faintly, a swatch of pale yellow in a meadow of browns and blacks. Ash and Andy sleep near to her, wreathed in flowers and splayed carelessly.

"We should have warned the others," Sam says.

Cas gazes at him with those eerie blue eyes. "It would be too obvious if we were all missing at once."

"Besides, they probably wouldn't believe us," Dean adds.

Sam still feels a niggling of guilt.

"Take this." Dean hands him a small rusty dagger. "Just in case."

Sam stares at the dagger. Its weight is so familiar in his hands and yet so foreign, a dusty untouched memory from a lifetime ago. "Where did you get this?"

"Don't worry about it." Dean doesn't meet his eyes. "It's all part of the plan."

They watch the valley in silence.

Hours pass, or maybe only minutes. The sky is perfectly blue and clear and warm and scattered with stars, and Sam's eyelids grow heavier and heavier as the night stretches on. He closes them for a moment, just a moment…

"Look." It's Cas, leaning forward intently on his branch. Sam looks.

There, in the valley where the heap of villagers sleep, around the perimeter where the underbrush encroaches on the clearing. A movement stirs the leaves, and six black shadows slink out of the dark jungle. Sam's heart catches in his throat.

The figures – people, they're shaped like people, but they move like water, like smoke – snake toward the sleeping villagers. They pause on the edges of the heap, and then they slither over the bodies, light as air. Not a villager stirs. And then slowly, they come to circle around a young man. His chest rises and falls.

Sam can't breathe.

The shadow people crouch down and converge on him, a roiling black mass, writhing, billowing, and they wrap around him… and they swallow him whole.

Whole.

Silence rings through the valley, and Sam thinks that maybe the entire world has stopped turning.

"Okay," Dean says loudly. "We're getting the _fuck_ out of here."

The shadow people freeze.

They turn their heads toward the mango tree.

"Dean," Sam breathes.

They writhe.

Cas's eyes turn wild. "GO!" he shouts.

And in an instant the three of them are scrambling down the tree, yanking daggers out of their belts and dropping out of the branches with earth-shaking thuds, running as fast as they can toward the beach. Sam hangs right and pounds through the jungle, the bushes whipping savagely at his legs, and he runs back to the valley and shouts at the top of his lungs, "RISE AND SHINE!"

Two of the shadow people race toward him.

The villagers rise up in a confused chaos, and it takes them a moment to recognize the source of the disruption. The first one to see the shadows is a little girl, who screams a shrill whistle of a noise and clutches her brother.

The villagers recoil from the shadow monsters like an ocean wave.

Faster than humanly possible they slither up to Sam, and as they draw closer he can see their faces, white shiny fangs and green jewel eyes that glitter in the dark and deep red nostril slits, and somehow it fills him with a sense of incredibly, heady delight that they have faces. Shadows can't be stabbed; things with faces can.

"Jo! Hendrickson! Andy! Ash!" he shouts. "Get to the beach! NOW!"

All four hesitate, stepping toward him with obvious intent.

The shadow on Sam's left darts at him, and Sam slashes wildly with his dagger, eliciting a hiss. "GO!" he bellows. "I've got this!"

They finally comply, and the shadow creature on Sam's right lunges for him.

…..

Dean and Cas dash toward the beach, lungs burning and legs on fire. Dean's eyes water but he can see it, he can see the white sliver of sand –

Pain slices through his shoulder, and he rears back with a sharp cry.

The shadow person snarls and drags him close, its claws dug deep into the meat of his shoulder. It sinks its fangs into his collarbone until Dean's lunges with his small blade manage to connect with their target, deep into the belly, and he yanks the knife violently upward. The monster screeches and crumples to the ground, clawing at the black liquid spurting from its abdomen.

"Dean!" Cas grabs him by the arm. "We have to run! The other creatures are catching up!"

"Nah, you go ahead," Dean says weakly, staggering back toward the jungle. "I'm just bleedin' to death. Just leave me here and I'll hold 'em off."

Another shadow creature howls at them, and Cas clenches Dean's arm tighter. His blade his much longer, a proper short sword, and he slices the thing's leg before its clawing arms reach them. "You can't do that!"

"Sure I can," Dean insists, noticing the strange sensation of his warm blood running down his back. Feels kinda like getting pissed on. "S'my duty, I'm your captain. Gotta lay down m'life." He lurches forward and summons his energy and slashes the flailing creature in the throat, only to be rewarded by a spray of black acrid liquid in his face. "Shit," he groans, wiping his chin. "That tastes nasty."

Cas's fingers are dug so deeply his arm that Dean doubts they'll ever come out. "If I leave you behind," he growls, "I won't have a life worth living."

Dean blinks woozily for a second at the statement, cocks his head, and then gets it. "Riiiight," he agrees. "Because Sammy will fuckin' murder your ass."

Cas glares at him darkly. "Exactly," he mutters. A third shadow creature suddenly appears at his side and slices at his face, and he raises his sword and fells it on the creature's skull, which splits in two like a melon.

"Wow," Dean says. "Remind me to puke later." And then his knees give out underneath him and he starts to sink to the ground.

"Come _on!_" Cas hauls him up and drops his cumbersome sword, moves Dean's left arm over his shoulder and half-carries him. "We have to get to the beach!"

Dean's trying, he's really trying, and he somehow puts one numb leg in front of the other and he can't even feel his right shoulder so that's good he thinks, at least it doesn't hurt, except at the same time it's a blinding white pain so bright you can't even see, and the edges of his vision are turning gray, and he thinks, _What a stupid way to die_.

"You're not going to die," Cas pants. "I won't allow it."

Dean laughs, only it comes out like a choke. "You an' what army?"

Dean's feet stumble. Sand, they're on sand now, they're at the beach, and offshore he can see the sail of the sloop they salvaged. Sammy, Hendrickson, running toward them. He can hear Cas's ragged breathing in his ear, sees the blood streaked down his face, and he stops and slips off his shoulder and says, "S'okay, Sammy's here, we made it."

Sammy and Hendrickson, shouting.

Shouting.

Dean turns around.

The shadow creature, wielding Cas's dripping black sword, it's intelligent, and its green glittering eyes are fixed on Dean, the weak one, the slow, the fallen behind, and Dean thinks, _Huh. Well, it beats bleeding to death._

And then Cas shoves him out of the way.

The shadow creature draws back the sword and plunges it into Cas's chest.

Cas's mouth opens and he chokes, a wet surprised sound, and Dean's ears ring with a deep and terrible silence. The monster opens its terrible gaping maw impossibly wide.

And then Castiel reaches up and grasps the sword by the blade, little rivulets of blood trickling from his palms; his face contorts and then with a slow clean movement, he draws it out of his body. The shadow creature looms its great mouth over him, ready to devour.

Castiel takes the sword by the hilt and swings it and slices the monster's head clean off.

There is a moment, and Dean stares, and his head is so light that for a second he imagines that he is not even in his body, and he is up above them watching five people frozen, stopped short in their tracks, trapped in an impossible slice of time and unable to tear their eyes from the black-haired man swaying unevenly and clutching a blackened sword with bloody hands.

Cas holds up a hand to his face and stares at it intently. "Red," he says, a note of surprise in his voice.

Then he collapses in the sand, next to Dean, and Dean isn't sure when he himself collapsed but the last thing he remembers is the familiar voices insisting he stay awake and the world fading to a dull and soundless white.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N:_ My gorgeous gooseberries! Thank you so much for reviewing. This week, your reward for reviewing is your very own _Injured Puppydog Castiel (TM)_. Somebody's played a little too rough with our favorite nerdy angel - nurse him back to health with your own special medicine *wink*. _

_(The medicine is your breasts.) _

_In related canoes: as one reviewer noted, I had switched to present tense during the lotus-eater sequence, to give it the sense that they no longer had any past or future. In this chapter I switch back to the past tense, so I apologize if any present tense sneaks its way back in. I tried to proofread it, but you know how it is. The second you publish something online, you instantly see all the mistakes you missed before. _

_P.S. Now all I can think of is some slutty nurse trying to tend to Castiel with her boobs popping out of her little white uniform, and Castiel turning to Dean wide-eyed and whispering, "This is a _den_ of _iniquity_." And then Dean shushes him as he blatantly ogles the nurse. And then Cas gets jealous and reports the slutty nurse to her superiors, and she's replaced by a regular nurse in baggy scrubs, and Dean is so mad that he won't come visit Cas in the hospital for like an entire day, but then he can't take it anymore and he comes back the next day and tells Cas he owes him "one thousand blowjobs" when he's better and climbs into the bed with him and makes him watch Dr. Sexy on the TV. _

_P.P.S. Sorry about that rambling crack I just wrote you. It's late. Enjoy the chapter, and please review. _

* * *

**A Lifetime Later, Somewhere Painful**

Dean returned consciousness sluggishly, against his will, dragged out of cottony darkness into feeling. He was awoken by sharp, nagging jabs in his neck and shoulder; he took a deep breath and stared at the back of his eyelids, pinkish gray, and tried to exhale the wave of pain.

"Dean?" Sam's voice rang hopeful. "Dean, are you awake?"

Dean groaned. His mouth was sandy dry and crackling paper.

"Dean, we made it. We made it on the ship. I don't know where the hell you guys found it, but it's sea worthy. We're safe."

Dean sighed, and muscles that were instinctively tensed slid into relaxation. "Water," he whispered.

"You're gonna need to open your eyes, Dean."

Dean sighed again and opened his eyes reluctantly.

The room wasn't too bright, clear sunlight pouring in an open doorway, and Sam's shadowy face came into focus. He raised a tin cup to Dean's mouth and carefully tilted it, cool water slipping over his parched lips and tongue and throat and dribbling out the corners of his mouth.

Dean swallowed and reached up to take the cup from Sam, but his arm only lifted a couple inches off the bed. He made a noise of protest.

"I had to bind that shoulder pretty tightly," Sam explained, "and the muscle is torn. You're going to have to take it easy for awhile."

Dean glared and grabbed the cup with his left hand. "You don't have to spoon feed me like a baby," he growled, his voice coming out scratchy and rough. "I still got one good arm."

Sam laughed heartily, and Dean heard all the worried hours spent at his bedside in that laugh. "Man, I'm gonna have to watch you like a hawk or you'll be ripping the stitches out with your teeth."

Dean emptied the cup in one long drink.

Sam watched him closely. "How do you feel? You lost a lot of blood, so don't try and sit up right away. Ash is at the helm, so you don't have to worry about that – not that we know where the hell we are, but if anyone can figure it out he can. You've been asleep for about a day and a half, and there's no sight of land yet; there's a galley on this thing but no food, so –"

Dean set down the cup. "Sam."

"Oh man, you probably have to piss like a racehorse, don't you?" Sam said, standing up hastily. "Here, take my arm and I'll help you stand up, I've got a pot here for that –"

Dean made no move to get up. "Sam."

Sam shut up, looking at him with trapped eyes, his adam's apple bobbing. He knew what Dean was going to ask.

Dean closed his eyes. "He's dead, isn't he."

"Not yet." Sam's voice was soft, resigned, and Dean heard the creak of his chair as he sat back down. "The sword missed his heart and lungs, somehow – one in a million kind of wound – but it's only a matter of time. Between sepsis, tetanus, and blood loss… He's already feverish, babbling. I don't think he's got very long."

"Yeah? Well." Dean turned his face toward the wall, away from Sam. "Good riddance, I guess."

"Dean!" Sam gripped the side of the bed. "He saved your _life_. He's dying because he _saved you_."

"You think I don't know that?" Dean barked. His hands clenched and twisted in his sheets. "I don't even know the guy. He had no business doing what he did."

"I don't – I don't fucking _get_ you," Sam sputtered. "If you were in his place, you would have done the exact same thing."

"That's bullshit!" Dean snarled. "I wouldn't stick my neck out for some guy I hated! I wouldn't get myself killed for no damn reason!"

Sam stood up. "Cut the act, Dean. You had him pegged wrong and you know it."

Dean swallowed and there was a hard lump in the back of his throat.

"Shout if you need anything."

And Sam left Dean in his small cabin, alone with the shadows, staring at the wall and trying to stay in denial as long as he could.

…..

Jo sat in the makeshift sick bay and wiped Castiel's forehead with a cool cloth. He looked terrible: flushed in the cheeks, breathing shallowly, pupils blown so wide his eyes are almost black, and sweating from every inch of his body. The remnants of his shirt were now tied in strips around his chest, a blot of crimson already bleeding through at the center. She wiped his brow gently, softly, and she wished there were more she could do.

Suddenly, he grabbed her wrist with iron strength, and fixed his black gaze on her. "Water," he said. "I need the water."

Jo suppressed her panic and reached for the pitcher of water.

"NO!" he shouted, his face contorting ugly. "The _water!_"

"Let go!" she shouted back, struggling to wrestle her arm away from him.

"Please," he begged desperately, brokenly, as pathetic as he was angry a moment ago. "Please. The water. I'm dying."

"Hey."

Jo turned, and saw Dean standing in the doorway, clutching the frame for support. His normally trim beard had grown scruffy, and his hair was all matted on one side and sticking up at odd angles.

"It's not a good time right now," she told him.

Dean walked forward, slowly and carefully. He peeled Cas's fingers off of her arm; Cas had gone glassy-eyed and silent. "Why don't you take a break," he suggested. "I'll watch him for awhile."

Jo snorted. "You look like shit, Dean."

"I'm fine, thanks for asking," he answered dryly. "C'mon, Jo. Give us a minute."

She eyed the two of them warily, and left with a last doubting glance.

Dean settled gingerly into her chair and observed Castiel, laid out like funeral corpse, a dark halo of sweat outlining his body on the cot. Cas's eyes followed his, and when he looked up to his face they locked silently.

"So," Dean said. "Up until a day ago, I was pretty sure you wanted me dead."

Cas didn't say anything.

Dean smirked, but was a hollow smile. "You know, if you're trying to kill me, you're doing a really shitty job."

Cas put a hand to his own chest, feeling along the bandages. "I did not understand how perfectly human I am," he murmured. "But I have done my duty."

"And what is that, exactly?" Dean leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. "I still don't understand what you were doing on my ship."

"I knew from the beginning." Cas was staring at him, but Dean got the strange sensation that he was staring _through_ him, beyond him, into him. "The way your men loved you, their unfailing loyalty. I didn't want to believe it, but I knew it. I told myself it couldn't be possible, that they were just as sick and twisted as you."

Dean felt a strange ache in the pit of his gut.

"But then, on the island…" Castiel continued, his voice distant. "We could have slipped away, in the night. All of us. But you wouldn't leave the villagers without defending them first, without avenging Jake. You wouldn't leave until you had drawn the monsters out of the dark and that's when I knew for certain that I had been lied to."

"What are you talking about?" Dean whispered.

A bead of sweat dripped down toward his nose, and his gaze sharpened, and for a moment he was completely present. He said quietly, "You're a good man, Dean. A good man."

Dean sat stuck in the moment, unable to speak, unable to think.

Then Castiel gasped and arched off the bed, his body seizing, muscles contracted tight, his eyes wide and blank, and he cried out between clenched teeth.

It was lockjaw, tetanus setting in. Dean had seen men die of it often enough to know. He also knew that if it was setting in this early it was going to be much, much worse.

He grabbed Castiel by the shoulders and held him down, kept him from spasming out of his bed, and he told him, "It's okay, Cas, it's okay, I know it hurts but it'll pass, it's okay," and Cas just cried and cried through his clenched-tight jaw and Dean found his own eyes welling up and he growled in a cracking voice, "You stupid idiot, you shouldn't have done this, I was gonna die anyway!"

An eternity later his cramping muscles loosened again and he collapsed into an exhausted stupor, only half conscious. He put his hand on Dean's arm and mumbled, "Water, water."

Dean pulled his arm away to reach for the pitcher, and as Cas's hand slid off it left behind a red smeared trail.

His fingernails. His fingers had clenched so tight into his hands that his he'd cut his palms.

"Dean," Cas murmured, his eyes sliding shut. "I'm sorry."

Dean's mouth trembled, and his eyes blurred hot and damp. He forced himself to say in a rough broken voice, "Don't mention it."

….

The sun set over the Bermuda sloop as its crew gathered on deck. They stood in silence; Dean scratched awkwardly at his shoulder, and Ash sat on the rail and squinted at them with shadowed eyes.

"So," Hendrickson began. "Are we going to talk about what happened?"

"On the island?" Sam asked. "Well, those white flowers the villagers gave us altered our perception of time and made us forget everything that –"

"No, no, no," Hendrickson cut in. "The flowers are about the only part of the whole damn nightmare that makes sense to me. I'm talking about those – those _things_ that we saw. They were definitely _not human_." He looked around at the others. "Am I the only one who's having trouble accepting this?"

"They got Jake, didn't they?" Andy asked quietly. "They, like, ate him."

Sam sighed. "That's the most likely thing, yeah."

"How do we know it wasn't just in our heads?" Hendrickson asked. "More of the flowers getting to us? How do we know they were real?"

Jo looked around the circle. "We all saw them, didn't we? And we all saw the same thing." She shrugged. "That's real enough for me."

Ash slid down from the railing. "Look out at the water."

They all obediently looked out to sea. The rippling waves were pearly and shiny, even more iridescent than they had been after the big storm, and the foam along the wake of the ship cast shimmering glances of light.

"I think it's time to accept that we're not on the map anymore." Ash's face was grim. "This is not the same plane of reality we were on before. Similar, but not the same. We been sailin' around our whole lives in a teacup, and that storm stirred us up and splashed us down into the saucer."

They all paused for a moment to consider the image, and paled when they realized the difficulty of getting back into the teacup.

"But why?" Hendrickson asked. "How?"

Dean rubbed a hand over his beard. "I… think I know."

Everyone's eyes darted to him instantly.

"I've been having these dreams." It was strange to admit it out loud, to treat it seriously. "In these dreams, I'm in a meadow with Zeus."

"Zeus?" Andy blinked. "Like, the Greek god? The one in charge?"

Dean nodded. "And he told me that… Gordon was some kinda big Poseidon worshipper, and so now Poseidon's got a big hate-boner for me and he's promised I'll never make it to England. He told me that right before the storm blew us off course."

A resignation began to set in Sam's face, a sort of recognition that _fuck, I was wrong._

"And right before we figured out everything on the island," Dean continued, "he tried to warn me about the monsters, said somebody was trying to eat us or something."

The seven of them stood silently contemplating.

"Sooo," Jo said slowly, "It's not just monsters that are real. It's gods. Ancient Greek gods."

Dean chuckled bitterly. "It's pretty fucking crazy, but it's all I got."

"Wait, wait, wait." Andy put out his hands and waved them. "Hang on a second. So the flowers made us all forget?"

Everyone stared at him, appalled.

Sam said, "Yes, Andy. I said that. Five minutes ago."

He screwed up his face and squinted at Dean. "But then – if the flowers made us forget…" He cocked his head. "How did you remember?"

"Well, I…" It takes Dean a minute to trace it back himself. "I didn't. Cas did. He came to me and he just… knew."

"How did he know?" asked Hendrickson, crossing his arms. "Did one of the villagers tell him?"

"It's possible," Ash said, "if he learned the language. Nobody ever said anything to me, but then, I never really asked, you know?" He shook his head and shivered. "Generations living like that, somebody had to know what was going on."

"Maybe," said Dean.

"Well, we killed them," Sam said. "Or at least six of them. So maybe things will be better there now. Hopefully we got the same ones who took Jake and Shama." He rubbed his hands together. "But right now, our immediate concern is food. As in, there's no food on this boat. The only reason we have water is because Ash distilled it with the wood stove in the galley, and pretty soon we're going to run out of furniture to burn. We have to make port wherever we can find it." He glanced at Dean. "I'll be acting captain until Dean is well enough to man the helm."

Dean rolled his eyes and scowled, but didn't contradict him.

"Since I'll need all other hands on deck, I'm thinking…" Sam looked wary, as though he knew he was treading on dangerous ground. "Dean, if you could attend to Castiel, then Jo could help sail."

Dean's heart sank, and he could already feel the dread crawling up his back, but he replied with a snappy, "Yes, _acting_ captain."

"You know, Dean…" Hendrickson looked thoughtful. "If this Greek thing is for real, and Zeus is actually talking to you? You might want to take advantage of that. Ask him to send us land, or something. Any kind of aid."

Dean heard the unspoken implication that he might also intercede on Cas's behalf, and he nodded. "I'll see what I can do."


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: _Oh, my cherished cherubs! Thank you again for the reviews. I love them! They make me happy! Many of you are worried for poor Castiel's life, as well you should be. He's going through the wringer right now, but unfortunately that's the reality of getting stabbed through the chest with a rusty sword. Noooot exactly the kind of injury you just walk away from._

_In this chapter, Cas makes an oblique reference to the Greek god of sleep, and I don't want to spoil it for you, but I want you to be able to get the reference even if you don't know Greek mythology. So, I thought I'd mention here that his name is Hypnos, and if you look him up on Wikipedia after you read the reference you should get it pretty quickly._

_Additionally, you should know that when I introduce a new Odyssey character, I'm casting them out of the previously established mythology of Supernatural. Sometimes I'll use their Greek name and sometimes I'll use their Supernatural name. So, Zeus is actually Chuck, as you may have guessed. Hopefully you'll recognize the others that I introduce along the way by the way I describe them, and if you don't, you can always ask! I caused some confusion waaay earlier and I forgot to address it, so I'll just clear it up now - Barnes, the pirate who had a big ol' crush on Sam? That was the name of a guy in "The Real Ghostbusters," the Supernatural Convention episode of season five. Specifically, the skinny guy cosplaying as Sam. I had completely forgotten that Pamela the Psychic's last name is ALSO Barnes, and after I did that gender reveal with Jo, no wonder some people were confused! Sorry, guys._

_Finally, the other day I was thinking about the fact that Bobby is dead, for realsies, and I got reaallll sad. SO, your reward for reviewing this chapter is your very own _Completely Alive and Totally Faked Being Dead Bobby Singer (TM)_! "There are some things that surrogate father figures can't buy. For everything else, there's Bobby Singer."_

_Enjoy the chapter! (Or sob your miserable way through it, whatever floats your boat. :P)_

* * *

Dean prayed, but nothing happened.

He supposed that made sense. He was only half-convinced that his dreams were more than dreams, and Zeus hadn't struck him as a particularly competent god. Besides, his nickname as Lucky Dean had always been partly sarcastic. Now that they were drifting through open water with no food and no map, it was just his luck that no one out there was listening to his silent pleas.

Sam tried to navigate by the stars, but somehow they had all gone out. Only the moon hung low and large in the black sky, white and looming.

Castiel continued to suffer, by turns babbling and then catatonic. Dean stayed by his side and hung a hammock in his room. He became less and less coherent; one afternoon he gave a long excited rant about the unusual life cycle of a particular sea slug, and then he had a savage spasm, his back arching like a bow. When it was over he laid limp in his cot and said in a quiet monotone voice, "He walks alone. He will be happy to see me."

"Who?" Dean asked.

"The brother of sleep," Castiel answered, staring flatly at the ceiling.

He wouldn't say anything more after that.

By far the worst part, besides the growing hunger that left them all weak and dizzy, was when Dean had to change Castiel's bandages. Sam had found the moth-eaten remnants of bedsheets in a cabinet and torn them into strips, and it was Dean's duty to put them on Cas in the morning. It was a two-man job; Andy would come in and help Cas into a sitting position and hold him there, while Dean worked around him.

Cas would close his eyes tightly and his whole body would tense up.

Dean would start with a rag soaked in seawater. He would dampen the old bandages, which had adhered to Cas's skin with dried blood and pus. He knew the water stung but it was better than ripping off the skin, and Sam told him that the salt cleaned better. Castiel was too weak to flinch but his muscles would flutter, quivering under Dean's touch. He wouldn't cry out.

Next Dean would peel off the bandages carefully, trying to quell his nausea at the stench. He smelled like rancid meat and copper. Every time he took the bandages off, the smell was worse and the wound looked worse. Yellow pus seeped between the black scabs, scabs crusted over Sam's rough, makeshift stitches, and the purple-red tendrils that emanated from the stitches and snaked under the skin reached farther every day. It was the same on his back, where the sword had pierced through. Andy didn't seem bothered by the smell, but he hated to look at the wound, and he would keep his eyes fixed on Castiel's face as he said encouraging things like "Doin' great, buddy, you're doin' great."

Then Dean would have to do the part he hated the most.

He would take his salt-water soaked rag, and clean the wounds.

Cas would clutch Andy's arms, and start to hyperventilate, and then abruptly stop breathing, choked with pain, his ribs hiccupping, until Dean paused and a ragged gasp would rip out of him, leaving him panting. And then Dean would start again and the cycle would start again until finally, finally he was clean.

Andy would get red-faced and red-eyed, and he'd say hoarsely, "You're doin' great, Castiel, doin' just great, we're almost done."

Dean would tie the new strips of cloth around him, and then they'd gingerly lay Cas back down and wipe the sweat from his face, and he would lie there staring up at the ceiling with his face wrenched tight in agony and rasp, "Thank you."

On the fourth day of this, Dean snapped.

He stood up, said "Excuse me" to Andy, and staggered out to the deck, his head light and fuzzy and his shoulder aching horribly and his stomach clawing at his insides, and he snapped his head up to the bright sky and screamed, "You think this is _funny?_"

All the others on deck froze and stared at Dean. He didn't care. He wasn't talking to them.

"You stupid, lazy, motherfucking son of a bitch!" Dean shouted, his voice tearing raw. "You have the _gall_ to call yourself a _fucking god_ and you stand by and _watch this happen? _What the _FUCK!_"

The last word echoed across the water, ringing in the clear air.

Dean stared up at the sun, which seemed to spin lazily around him as he swayed on unsteady feet. "Well," he panted. "That's all I got. That's all I got to say."

"Dean." Sam's voice was weary, and he sagged at the wheel. "Go back inside. Stay out of the sun."

"We're gonna die out here." Hysterical laughter bubbled up inside of Dean, and he closed his eyes. "This is how we die."

"Go inside!" Sam snapped. "Or I'll kick your ass and carry you in!"

Dean obeyed, and went back to his hammock next to Castiel, and curled up with his face in his knees and wept silently as Castiel mumbled a barely audible litany on the movement of the tides.

…..

That night, the empty moonlight shone clear on the deck as Sam manned the helm. He wasn't sure why he bothered manning it, since they had no idea where they were going, but at least they were going there in a straight line. They were headed due west. His eyelids drooped and his hands hung heavy on the wheel.

He thought of Dean's outburst, and how hungry he was, and he wondered if it might be smarter for them to sink the ship and end it all now than go mad and tear each other apart. He'd heard of men turning to cannibalism. He shuddered, and wondered in his heart if he was capable of such a –

"What's up, Doc?"

Sam's entire body snapped to attention.

Standing before him in the space where no one had been standing a moment ago was a short man with close-set eyes, a narrow chin, and a cat's smile. He held a leafy flower in his hand, and he was dressed in strange clothes – a loose shirt with no buttons and long, coarse trousers.

Sam drew his knife. "Who are you?" he demanded. "Where did you come from?"

The man put up his hands. "Relax, kid!" he chided. "I bring tidings of great joy."

Sam scowled. "You didn't answer my questions."

The man's smile deepened, a self-satisfied smile, and he made a small bow. "The name's Hermes, and I'm here on behalf of Zeus."

Sam's heart stuttered in his throat. "The – the god, Hermes?"

Hermes squinted at him. "You're a few seeds short of a kumquat, aren't you? Yes, I'm Hermes, the messenger god. 'Zeus's little errand boy,' if you're feeling particularly spiteful." He raised an eyebrow and sauntered closer. "I'm also the god of travelers and thieves, so I'm baaaaasically you guys' patron saint."

Sam tried to wrap his head around a concept that he had only halfway considered might even be true. He swallowed and asked, "What's the message?"

"Well, first he wanted me to tell Dean that he's tied up right now. Hera caught him cheating again and… let's just say, she's got his nuts in a vise." Hermes made a face. "Literally."

Sam blanched.

"Secondly, _I _wanted to stop by because, to be frank, I've got money on you." He jumped his eyebrows a couple of times suggestively.

Sam wondered if he was hearing correctly. "Money?"

"Yup." Hermes twirled his flower. "Back on Olympus, we get bored. We like to make bets. And ever since Poseidon put a price on your head, I've been wagering that at least _one_ of you sorry sons of bitches will make it back to England."

"Why would you do that?" Sam asked. He was beginning to think that maybe he was dreaming. He had fallen asleep at the wheel, and he was dreaming.

Hermes shrugged. "Like I said, patron saint. You're my kinda guys. I like you. But let's face it: you're all pretty much shark food at this point. Sooooo…" He held out the flower. "I've decided to tip the scales."

Sam took the flower warily. It was white, which made him instinctively suspicious, but it only had three petals, and it had no scent. "What is it?"

Hermes's eyes sharpened. "You're about to come to an island. Just keep going west and I'll see to it. A sorceress lives on the island, and if she has her way, she'll slip you all a mickey and throw you in her cauldron. _Do not eat_ anything on the island."

Sam snorted. "We learned that lesson already."

"That flower," Hermes continued to lecture, "will make you immune to her magic, but it'll only last so long. Wait until you get to her house before you eat it. Then let her invite you in, eat whatever she gives you, and get the jump on her."

Sam inspected the flower. "Is this enough for all of us?"

Hermes laughed, his eyes dancing. "Of course not! That's a single serving of moly right there. No, you're going to have to do this alone, Sammy boy. If you're lucky, you'll be able to bargain for your friends."

"What about Castiel?" Sam asked, looking up from the flower. "Do you think you could –"

He was gone.

Sam stood alone in the moonlight, and the flower in his hand was the only proof he had that he hadn't been alone the entire time.

…

"Dean?" Cas's voice was scraped thin and brittle.

Dean opened his eyes, but it was pitch black in the cabin. "Cas?"

"Dean, I'm sorry."

"What for?"

"You've been kind to me."

"…. That's not something you have to be sorry for."

"I haven't…" He coughed. "I haven't merited your kindness."

"Dude, you." Dean struggled not to raise his voice. "You took a _sword_ for me."

"For all the wrong reasons."

"Whatever. Still counts."

Cas was silent.

Dean closed his eyes again.

"Dean?"

Dean sighed. "Yeah, Cas?"

"I don't think I'm going to wake up again."

Dean sat up in his hammock. "Don't talk like that, Cas."

"I need a favor from you."

"Cas, you can't –"

"I know, I don't have the right. But please."

"That's not what I –"

"There's only one chance I have to live, only one chance, and I'll need your help."

Dean's heart beat faster. "What is it?"

"I need to get to the –"

And then Castiel cut himself off with a sharp whine, and Dean could hear him seizing up in his cot, his entire body locking up in a painful rictus.

Dean waited. When it was over, he said, "Cas?"

"Octopi have relatively short life expectancies," Cas muttered, "sometimes only a few months. They have three hearts, a complex brain, and keen eyesight. They're deceitful creatures that do not keep their promises and they steal incessantly."

Dean turned over and went back to sleep.

…..

The morning dawned on the ship, and brought a new revelation:

They had snuck up on an island in the night.

Six of them cried. Castiel did not comprehend the news, and did not. Sam brought out his flower and told them what Hermes had told him.

"I didn't want to wake you, in case it was a hallucination," he explained. "I didn't want to get your hopes up. But we made it, we really made it."

The island, which at dusk had been completely invisible, was now a living green reality before them. Flatter and wider than the previous one, they lacked the telescope to see much more than the coastline. But then there, along the edge –

"The Impala!" Dean shouted, sighting her before anyone else. "The Impala is there!"

Swiftly they sailed, tugging at the rigging with arms weakened by hunger but strengthened by hope, and they sidled up alongside the ship, hollering and waving.

No one seemed to be aboard.

The Impala was much taller than their current ship, too tall to board easily without assistance. None of them had eaten in five days, and their footwork would be clumsy and feeble.

"I can't believe it," Dean grumbled. "She's so close I can practically touch her, and we're stuck makin' gaga eyes from afar like a port city prostitute."

"We'll get her back soon enough," Sam said firmly. "And we'll find out where the crew is." He turned his eyes toward the island. "I think I might have an idea where."

…

Sam, Jo, Andy, Ash, and Hendrickson trekked through the jungle and made jokes about its familiarity. Their legs were shaky and their arms pushed weakly at the branches in their way; more than once they stopped to stare at the round, translucent peaches that hung heavy on the trees. They soldiered on, though, and eventually they pushed through to a big clearing, in the center of which was…

A gorgeous, sprawling mansion of white marble columns and elegant fountains. The pathway up to the mahogany door was paved with pink gravel and lined with topiaries, bushes cut in the shapes of foxes and panthers and peacocks. They walked up with wondering eyes, and when Sam lifted the heavy iron knocker they could hear it echo inside through some long, fantastical hallway.

"I got a bad feeling," Ash mumbled, his eyes darting from topiary to topiary. "Maybe we should just loot it and run."

Sam shushed him and drew the flower from his pocket. Quickly he bit the bloom off and chewed it, somehow relieved that it had a bitter taste.

The door swung open, with no one behind it. Warily, cautiously, the group entered the corridor.

"Why, hello."

Standing before them was a breathtaking woman: light brown curls falling gently to her shoulders, perfectly curved brows over striking green-hazel eyes, and a smile that drew across her face like a heart-stopping Cheshire grin. A silk olive dress wrapped tightly around her shapely body and cut away at her knees, a length that would look scandalously indecent on anyone else but on her it was merely a scandal, a rumor, a knowing whisper concealed behind a telling hand.

Everyone gaped.

She arched an eyebrow. "May I ask whom I have the pleasure of receiving?"

They gawked.

Finally Ash stepped forward and bowed his head. "M'lady." He made an aborted bow and then decided to curtsy.

"I am not a lady," she told him, "though I am the mistress of this manor. You may call me Bela."

"Bela," he corrected. "We, uh, we are but weary sailors who have been blown off our course. We came upon your island in search of sustenance and shelter."

Her smile deepened, and her eyes sparkled. "You've come to exactly the right place. Follow me." And she sashayed away, her heels clicking on the marble floor.

After a second of disbelief, they collectively shook themselves and hurried after her.


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: _My dear darling doves! Thank you so much for your reviews. Your reward this week is a bass fish mounted on a plaque that sings "Carry On Wayward Son" and flaps his fins in rhythm! I know, it's not much of a reward, but we're all cleared out from the Father's Day rush this weekend. You wouldn't believe how many people want to give their dads our _Extreme Sexyness Castiel (TM)_.*_

_*The answer is none. _

_In other stews, this chapter has been coming for a long time and was therefore difficult to write. The pacing was also difficult, because I pretty much see this whole thing as a TV show in my head and TV shows get to do fun things with simultaneous events that are difficult to do with writing. So please review and let me know if you think it works or not. _

_Enjoy the chapter!_

* * *

The five of them followed Bela down the long entryway, through a narrow corridor lined with oil paintings, and to large oak double doors intricately carved with lions and tigers. She stopped at the door, and knocked three times.

The doors swung inward, and the pirates stood in awe.

It was a giant hall, fifty foot ceiling and crystal chandeliers, amber-colored marble floor. In the center a long polished table that would comfortably seat a hundred men was set with a sumptuous feast big enough to feed two hundred, and at its head sat a magnificent green velvet throne backed by a pure gold sunburst that evoked a baroque painting of the messiah. But easily, _easily_ the most impressive thing was the dozens of wolves sitting on the floor, their snouts turned expectantly toward Bela.

The pirates stood frozen in the doorway.

"Come in, they're quite tame," Bela assured them. She walked up to a wolf with a black muzzle and stroked his head. "There's nothing to be afraid of."

"W-we're not afraid," Ash stammered. "We're just. Um. Boy, did you train all these guys yourself?"

She smirked, and stepped her way between the wolves to her throne. "I'm an experienced handler. Please, have a seat, you must be hungry."

They walked warily amongst the wolves, hearts thumping and hands shaking. The wolves stared up at them intently with gold-yellow eyes and black quivering noses, the very tips of their tails flicking the ground. Sam walked by one with a brown ruff and he could see it visibly strain towards him, and a soft whine squeaked from its throat.

Bela sat down on her throne and gave a wave of her hand. "Yes," she sighed, "you can say hello."

The wolves leapt up as one and attacked.

Later, everyone would deny having screamed. Andy would admit to a manly yell, but the other three blamed Jo, who insisted that she had cringed with a boyish shout. Nevertheless, five unison screams rang abruptly through the hall, followed by blank silence, because –

The wolves were jumping, licking, panting, wagging their tails excitedly, pawing at their legs and nosing their elbows, as friendly as retriever puppies.

Bela grinned.

"Hey, buddy," Ash said weakly to the wolf that had put paws on his chest and was eagerly licking his face. "Down, boy."

She snapped her fingers, and every single wolf sat down obediently.

"Enough playtime," Bela said. "You can fraternize to your heart's content after lunch."

And Sam became instantly aware of the incredible smells wafting from the table, the roast pheasant and wild hen and soft buttery rolls and fresh fruit, and his mouth watered and he went weak in the knees.

They all pulled out chairs and sat down uneasily, and began to pile food onto their plates.

…..

Dean kind of hated Sam right now.

Sam made the decision that Dean and Cas should come ashore with the others, and then hide in shade of the outcropping of trees on the beach. Cas, who hadn't been responsive since his last conversation with Dean, had to be carried into the small lifeboat. It was only as they pulled the boat up onto the sand that he suddenly roused himself in a fit of delirium, thrashing about and babbling gibberish. They'd managed to drag him into the shade and instructed Dean to try and calm him as they marched off on their oh-so-important mission.

Dean wasn't even allowed to eat anything. That was alright, he'd just wait here and die of hunger, no big deal.

Luckily Castiel quickly exhausted himself and gave up, silent and limp, his bony elbows and knees bent at slightly unnatural angles, like a ragdoll. Every so often he would shiver convulsively.

"It's okay, Cas," Dean said. He sat against the trunk of a tree with Cas's head resting on his leg; Cas's glassy eyes stared up at him. He stroked his hair like he would a sick cat, or an injured bird – gently, soothingly. "It's okay. You're okay."

That was the furthest thing from the truth, but it was easier to say than _You're dying, you'll be dead soon, it won't hurt anymore._ Dean's stomach was hollow and his heart was hollow and his head was hollow. He'd be damned if he'd let Cas die without thinking he had a friend in the world. "It's gonna be okay. Just listen to the ocean."

The waves lapped at the glittering surf, curling under and gushing and swirling onto the sand, slowly ebbing farther and farther down the beach.

Cas stared up at Dean, and his eyes welled up shiny and bright.

"It's okay," Dean whispered hoarsely.

"Dean," Cas said, his voice dry and barely louder than a breath. "Thah-lassah. Nehro."

"I can't understand you." Dean's eyes burned. "I can't understand what you're saying."

"Thah-lassah," Cas repeated, and a tear slid down the side of his cheek. "Nehro." His hand fluttered toward the waves. "Okeanos."

And just like that,

everything

clicked

together.

"The ocean," Dean said. "You want to go to the ocean."

More tears slid down the sides of his eyes. Cas's mouth pulled into a trembling smile as he made a small noise of heartbroken happiness.

The sea roared in Dean's ears, and he said, "Well, fuck." Carefully he slid out from Cas and stood on unsteady legs. "If your dying wish is to get in the water, then by fucking God that's what we'll do!" And he pitched forward and hauled Cas up, grunting under the weight.

He slung Cas over his good shoulder and staggered forward, dimly aware that he wasn't going to have the strength for a return journey. The angry sun beat down on his shoulders and sweat trickled down his back and into his eyes and his other shoulder screamed and screamed and there was a pretty good chance he was delirious himself, but he didn't care.

A man's dying wish is something you respect.

….

The party sat staring at the food on their plates, napkins on their laps, their fingers trembling with anticipation. Ash looked at Bela and said, "Well, I guess we should say grace."

Bela crossed her legs and flicked back her hair. "Be my guest."

Ash clasped his hands together and glanced at the others. "Dear heavenly father, or… fathers, or mothers, as the case may be, thank you for this, uh… unexpected meal before us, and, um, thank you for our lovely hostess, and her… wolves." He paused a second, and then added, "Amen."

After a moment of uneasy silence, he clapped his hands together and proclaimed, "Let's eat!"

The food was incredible. It was all Sam could do not to abandon his silverware and shovel it into his mouth with his hands; he hadn't eaten in five days and each bite was a rush of ecstasy in his mouth. Though all the platters had been prepared before they arrived, they were all perfectly warmed (except the raspberry gelatin, which was wonderfully chilled, and the icy lemonade in their glasses). The sound of chewing and slurping and the smacking of lips filled the hall.

"So," Bela said, her eyes sharpening in Ash's direction, "what are your names?"

Ash wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I'm Ash, that's Jo, Henrickson, Andy Gallagher, and Doc Samuel."

"Doc Samuel?" Bela asked, taking a sip of her lemonade. "He must be the brains of the bunch, then."

Ash chomped on some broccoli and shook his head. "Nah, it's kind of joke, like Little John." He chewed and laughed. "If dumb were dirt, Sammy here would have about 40 acres!"

Sam speared a hunk of meat with his knife and grunted in Ash's direction.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Ash said. "He has his talents." He gulped his lemonade and shook his head again. "'Bout as sharp as a sack of wet mice, but he has his talents."

They fell into silence again as Bela watched them eat, the occasional whine coming from the watching wolves. They gobbled and chewed and devoured. She smiled, and her smile pulled wider and wider, until she said, "You're a bunch of little piggies, aren't you?"

Jo snorted. Henrickson stuck his face in his mashed potatoes.

"You're pigs," she said, the words clear and forceful. "You're just pigs."

Silverware clattered to the table, and Andy made a noise halfway between a yelp and a squeal. Their faces began to change – longer, wider, noses folding flat, eyes sliding back, their grimaces of panic stretching out into hungry maws – and their fingers pressed together, hardened, congealed into their hands.

Sam soldiered on with his food, his heart pounding in his chest, his eyes carefully on his plate.

The others were completely swine now, squealing and shrieking, exciting the attentions of the wolves, who sat still with trembling eyes and snapped their lolling pink tongues into their mouths.

Finally Sam looked up, and stared slack-jawed at his transformed companions. A glob of candied yam dripped off his lip.

Bela frowned. "A late bloomer?" She stood up languidly from her throne and drew a small vial from a hidden pocket of her dress, walking toward Sam with an exasperated look. "I suppose I forgot to account for size. No worries, of course, I have a little extra…"

Sam gazed up at her wonderingly, blankly.

She reached a delicate manicured hand out and stroked back an errant strand of hair behind his ear. "You'll be such a handsome pig," she murmured. "It's almost a shame." And she uncorked her vial, and tipped it towards his mouth.

That's when Sam leapt up, grabbed her wrist, slammed her to the table, and pressed a knife to her throat.

"Almost," he growled.

A chorus of answering growls went up around him.

She gazed at him calmly. "You might want to reconsider your plan. I say the word and two dozen wolves will rip your throat out."

"Not if I cut yours first," Sam countered through clenched teeth.

Her eyes flashed with something – intrigue? Frustration? – and she raised an eyebrow. "And after that? I suppose you think I have entirely unsecured enchanted mansion? The moment you poke your nose in the wrong place you won't have a nose anymore."

"Then I'll use a stick!" he snapped.

She smiled, and curled her body suggestively underneath him. "I like the way you think, Sam. And your gesture, though futile, exhibits a certain… cunning that interests me. What is it that you want?"

"Turn them back," he told her. "All the men you turned to animals. I don't just mean the pigs. The wolves too."

Her pulse quickened under his fingers, and her eyes widened just a fraction. "You're not quite the idiot I was expecting," she said evenly. "So you must know that nothing comes for free."

Sam stared back just as evenly, never letting up on the blade pressed to her skin. "Wouldn't dream of it."

Bela reached her free hand up and put it to his chest. "Then perhaps…" She slid her hand down and eyed him approvingly. "We can work out a deal."

Sam swallowed.

….

They were so close. Dean knew it. His legs shook and his shoulder had been lit on fire. Just a few more feet… His body rebelled but he forced himself to continue. He stared at the sparkling ocean until his eyes stung and his vision swam and his face melted into the sand.

Then he felt it.

Cool, gentle water licking at his toes.

He half-knelt, half-fell to the ground and slid Cas off his shoulder, trying to cradle his body carefully instead of simply dropping him, even though he felt something rip in his bandaged shoulder and a strangled gasp tore out of him. "We're here," he panted. "I took you to the ocean."

Cas's head lolled to the side, his eyes open and blank.

Dean tapped his cheek. "Cas. Wake up. We're even now. I took you to the ocean."

Cas laid still.

"C'mon." Dean wiped his forehead with the back of his arm and tried to ignore the sinking dread in the pit of his stomach. "C'mon! We made it!" He shook Cas's shoulders. "This was all you could think about! You can't die yet! We just got here!"

The water swirled around Cas's ankles, eddying and ebbing, white foam around his toes.

"Please." Dean pressed his hand to Cas's wounded chest and felt for a heartbeat, a breath, anything. "Don't die yet." His eyes blurred and his nose tickled, and he snuffled it back, saying, "How am I supposed to kick your ass if you're dead?"

Cas laid blank and silent beneath him.

And suddenly it was too much for Dean, and he fell forward in the sand, and collapsed next to Cas's body. _I tried_, he thought. _I really fucking tried_. He turned his face to Cas's, unable to tear himself away from that empty, dead gaze.

All for nothing.

The sea water flowed around their legs, cool and aimless.

Cas's eyes closed.

Dean started. "Cas? Cas, you in there?"

Castiel opened his eyes, and they were solid blue.

He began to mutter in what Dean had thought was gibberish but suddenly understood was another language, an ancient language, a language of power. His eyes glowed such a perfect blue, no pupil, and the blue shimmered along his body, shifting, changing, electrifying, and he reached a hand out and grabbed Dean's shoulder and the blue surged into Dean. Every hair on Dean's body stood up and he cried out not exactly in pain but in the unbearable strangeness of the sensation, the feeling of knitting and growing inside his own skin and the sparks crackling along its surface.

Dean felt like he was dying and coming alive at the same time. Stranger still, he knew Castiel was feeling the same thing. And for a moment, he felt like he _was_ Castiel, the same person, the same organism, staring at a twin of himself as undeniable as a reflection or a shadow.

In the next moment, that feeling vanished entirely, and was replaced by the trembling fear and humility of understanding the incredible power looking him in the face and knowing how very insignificant his strength was in comparison, how very paltry and weak he was in the grip of its terrible might.

Then that was replaced by the singular thought of _What the fuck?_

_The fuck just happened?_

_What the fucking fuck?_

Castiel's blue eyes slowly faded back to a normal shade, and the black pupil resurfaced and focused on Dean. He sat up and peered at Dean with concern. "Are you alright?"

"Fuck!" Dean wheezed, finding it hard to breathe.

"I think I overdid it," Castiel said. "I'm sorry. I didn't have very good control." Gone were the bags under his eyes, the sallow skin, the gauntness of his cheekbones. His face was the picture of health, beauty, everything – crisp and clean and sharp and new, like a man reborn. "You may fall unconscious."

Dean lurched upward. "_Unconscious?_" he barked, outraged. But just then, the edges of his vision turned grayish black and began to close in on the world around him.

"Just stay calm," Castiel told him.

"Gonna murder you," Dean gasped, clawing at the sand, struggling to stay awake. The world went dark and he fell back onto the beach. "Swear I'm gonna kill you…."

The last thing he heard was, "That seems highly improbable."

And he knew that son of a bitch was smirking.


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: _My darling, delightful, diabolical readers. I apologize for today's update. It is not only later than usual but also shorter than usual, both of which are terrible, horrible qualities for an update to have. I've been under the weather for the past couple of days, and as you fellow authors can attest, there is nothing harder to do than attempt to write scenes of sexual tension while your guts are liquefying inside your body. I considered holding this chapter for another day so I could make it longer, but I didn't want to make you wait anymore, so here it is. _

_HOWEVER, since it is so short, your reward for reviewing this installment is extra big! When you review this chapter you will get the _entire city of Lawrence, Kansas!_ Now you too can re-enact your favorite scenes from Supernatural, like the Winchester's home burning... to... the ground... OR happy scenes from their childhood! Yeah! Until their mother... is brutally... murdered... _

_You know what, never mind. Take the Mystery Spot, instead. At least the tragedies that occurred there were hilarious. _

_Enjoy the chapter!_

* * *

Dean awoke to the unusual realization that he felt good.

Not just rested, not just the absence of illness. He felt _good_, pleasant, strong, alert. His shoulder didn't hurt. His stomach didn't hurt. He felt like he could take on ten men with his right hand tied behind his back. He felt _alive_. And perhaps it was because of this alive alertness that he sat straight up and shouted, "CAS!"

Castiel stared back at him, sitting right in front of him with a bent palm frond in his hand. "Dean," he said. "You're awake."

"Thank you for informing me, Captain Obvious!" Dean hollered. He wasn't sure why he was hollering, just that it felt appropriate to do so. "Would you care to _explain_ what the hell just _happened_?"

Castiel snapped a slender leaf off of the frond and began to fold it against another. "You're upset." He was apparently going to continue stating the obvious.

Dean gritted his teeth, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. "Yes," he said. "I am upset. I am upset because you were dying, and then I put you in the water, and then you turned blue and zapped me and I blacked out and I woke up _here_!"

They were sitting in the same outcropping of trees Sam and the others had originally left them in, nestled comfortably in the sandy shade. Dean could only assume that Cas had carried – _carried _– him there.

Cas gazed at him and Dean couldn't help but stare back. God, he looked good. He practically glowed. He had tanned on the flower island and it made his eyes all the more striking, the lines of his musculature all the more obvious. The bandages around his chest were gone, and all that was left of his debilitating wound was a strange looking scar in the middle of his chest, a column of uneven dots, and it took Dean a minute to realize that it was from the stitches.

Cas saw where Dean was looking and raised a small knife, one that Sam had left with them for protection. "I took them out," he said, "but I'll need your help with the ones on my back."

Dean snatched the knife from him and glared. "Not until you explain." He jabbed the knife in Cas's direction. "Explain, or I'll gut you like a fish!"

Cas exhaled, and he picked up his palm frond and lowered his eyes to it. "You may have noticed when I first came aboard your ship that I was excessively eager to leave Belém."

Dean nodded warily.

"That is because I was being chased out." Castiel broke off another leaf and folded it to the others. "As a witch."

Dean gaped.

"A witch?" he repeated. "You're a witch? A for-real, burning-at-the-stake witch?"

Castiel folded his palm leaves and sighed. "The stitches in my back are uncomfortable, Dean. Perhaps I could explain in more depth while you remove them."

So after a certain amount of muttering and cursing and scowling on Dean's part, they re-situated themselves with Dean sitting at Cas's back, peering at the ugly black sutures and trying to gingerly cut the knots. Meanwhile, Cas talked.

"My mother emigrated to Brazil before I was born, from an English colony. She would never say which one, but English is my first language. I don't know my father. My mother was an outsider in our village; people liked her well enough, but she never belonged. The way she made a living, though, was as a medicine woman. She knew small magic, and she taught it to me. She said I had a gift for it. We made poultices and spells for the villagers, mostly for colic and impotence, but once in awhile a broken leg or a severe case of measles."

Dean squinted and stuck out his tongue as he cut a particularly small-knotted stitch. "What you did earlier? That didn't feel like small magic," he interrupted. "That felt like fucking big magic. Stake-worthy, even."

Cas's shoulders tensed. "May I continue?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Sorry, princess, finish your story."

"Eventually, after too many years of this I decided to seek my fortune in the city. I saw what the villagers would pay for these spells and thought I could make a living. I thought in the city I would blend in." His shoulders sank a little, and his head bowed. "I was… very wrong. I was correct that my spells would be popular, but soon I attracted too much attention and I was arrested." He chuckled dryly. "Why they thought an ordinary cell could contain a magic-wielder, I do not know. I escaped, retrieved my hidden savings and fled to the docks, where I was told you were the kind of man who would give me passage for the correct fee."

Dean tugged the last stitch loose and admired the clean back before him. "Not if I'd known you were a goddamn witch," he said. "Do you know how superstitious my crew is? They would've chucked your Jonah ass to the whale if they'd known you were a witch when we had that freaky storm." He poked the small scar experimentally. "How'sit feel?"

Castiel rolled his shoulders and turned his head to look back at Dean. "Better. Thank you."

Dean pushed the knife into the sand, hilt-up, and stood up and brushed off his hands. "My work is done. Back to interrogating you: what the HELL was with the water?"

Castiel watched him carefully. "You seem to have accepted the existence of magic quite easily."

Dean snorted and gave him an even look. "Dude. There are ancient Greek gods appearing to me in my dreams, and I was nearly murdered by a man-eating shadow creature. Your whole medicine-woman crap makes more sense than the majority of these past few weeks. Now _tell me what you did to me_ before I peel your eyeballs like grapes."

Castiel regarded Dean with a troubled expression on his face. "I'm finding it difficult to take your threats seriously," he said.

Dean flushed and he made a fist and growled, "I'm dead serious."

Cas just looked at him. "You saved my life, Dean."

Dean groaned and shoved his palm into his forehead. "And I'm regretting it every minute! I don't even know _how_ it worked!"

"The ocean supplies magic." Cas stood up and dusted off the backs of his legs. "Or perhaps only my kind of magic, I can't be sure. The energy of the moon pulling the tides somehow produces it, and I always return to the sea for strength. When I was stabbed I was able to heal my pierced lung before I succumbed, but after that I was too weak to do anything else, and I only grew weaker and more delirious."

Dean crossed his arms. "So I chuck you in the sea, you become chock full of magic…"

"But too weakened to channel it properly," Cas finished. "Imagine a pouring water from a heavy jug into a small glass with unsteady and shaking hands. It ends up coming out in big, uneven splashes, overflowing the glass."

Dean considered this imagery. "So you're saying I got splashed."

Cas looked away from him and toward the sea. "I'm saying you're the glass."

Dean blinked.

"I wanted to heal your shoulder," Castiel said quietly. "So I tried, and… I'm not sure yet what the effect will be." He bent down and picked up his folded leaf project. "I suppose we'll see."

"We'll see?" Dean shouted. "_We'll see?" _

"Dean!"

Dean and Cas both turned at the voice.

It was Sam, sprinting down from the jungle trail, the others running after him. The look on Sam's face was priceless – just pure astonishment and a dropped jaw, an outstretched finger pointing. "Castiel!" he called.

Dean waved. "Hey, Sammy!"

When Sam finally reached them, out of breath and wild-eyed, he doubled over and panted, "How – Castiel – alive –"

Cas opened his mouth to answer.

"Okay, don't get mad," Dean cut in smoothly, "but the long and short of it is: we ate a fruit."

Sam put his hands on his knees and squinted up at him. "What?"

"I know, I know, you told us not to eat anything on the island," Dean continued, raising his hands sheepishly. "But the guy was _dying_, you know? And all he wanted was to eat this weird-lookin' fruit. It was hanging from this tree right here and it was purple, with these little blue dots on it – anyway I figured, what could it hurt? I mean, he was literally going to die anyway. He took a bite of it, and I'll be damned, he started to get _better_. So I took a bite of it too, and bam! My shoulder is healed! Magic fruit, who woulda guessed it!"

Sam had recovered now and was standing, staring at the two of them. He pointed to the folded leaves in Cas's hand. "What is that?"

Cas looked down at his project. "I'm making a hat."

Jo, Andy, Ash and Henrickson had caught up in time to hear the fruit explanation, and they gawped at Dean with amazement. But what was that, behind them, on the trail – now Dean could see there were more people, more _pirates_ emerging from the jungle –

"My crew!" he yelled joyously. "It's my crew!"

A cheer went up among the rescued crew of the Impala. A few barked excitedly and then remembered themselves and looked embarrassed.

"Bela had them," Jo explained. "Kept them here in captivity the whole time since they landed."

"Who the hell is Bela?" Dean asked.

Ash grinned and swaggered up to Dean, clapping him on the shoulder and leading him up toward the jungle path. "Oh Dean," he said with a warm tone, "have we got a tale for you. A tale of suspense, intrigue, espionage, and very convincingly portrayed false identities! The story begins with our master tactician, Doc Samuel, assigning me the role of Dumbass Gullible Captain, and himself the part of Meaty Gruntbucket Number 2…"

Everyone swarmed around Dean eagerly as Ash spun the yarn, throwing in shouts of affirmation or hearty chuckles.

Castiel watched Dean silently, and eventually followed after them.


	12. Chapter 12

A/N:_ Okay, so I'm starting to feel really bad about the fact that Dean and Cas are still not together. I mean, we're twelve chapters in, for God's sake. But I promise to you that it's coming, and they're actually really close, just teetering on the edge of that precipice - but they haven't quite fallen off the cliff yet, and it's going to take a shove. The fact that I stupidly chose to give this story a plot AND include focus on characters other than Dean and Cas has really slowed the road to sexytimes, but we are still on that road, I promise._

_I am feeling better, and as soon as I got well I rushed to get this chapter to you. I hope you like it. In order to reward you for your extreme patience and incredible dedication, your review prize this week is your very own GIANT BLOWUP OF JENSEN'S INCREDIBLE FACE. Now YOU can have a FIFTY FOOT photo of Jensen's face plastered on the building of YOUR CHOICE! Study every eyelash in MIND-NUMBING DETAIL. Review to order now!_

_Finally, I'd like to thank everyone in the reviews from last chapter for their lovely comments. You guys are making some great guesses and inferences about the mythology (though I'm pretty sure I'm going to blow you guys' minds in awhile, heh heh heh), but I wanted to point out something I wasn't clear on myself until I researched for this story (*cough* Wikipedia *cough*): Circe and Calypso are two different ladies. Bela is Circe, the sorceress on an island who changes Odysseus's men into swine. She is described as "the most beautiful of the immortals," and after Odysseus outwits her, the crew stays on the island and she and Odysseus totally bang for like a year. (This is not how my story will go.) Towards the end of the epic, after aaaalll his other crew members are dead, Odysseus stumbles onto the island of Calypso, a Nereid. She keeps him prisoner, but it's like... a sexy prison. (There's a lot of sexy in the Odyssey.) Nereids are sea-nymphs, kinda like mermaids except less fishy and less murder-y (yes, mermaids are murder-y). Odysseus stays with her for seven years, and when she finally lets him go she actually wishes him luck and helps him get home. So yeah. The more you know!_

_Enjoy the chapter, y'all._

* * *

Dean wasn't able to get Sam alone until they reached Bela's mansion, and everyone else streamed past them to go inside. Dean grabbed Sam's arm and held him back.

"Hey," he said. "Ash didn't finish the story."

Sam shot Dean a look and glanced at the pirates still trailing in. "What do you mean?"

Dean crossed his arms. "He said you threatened Bela and she turned them back. And suddenly you trust her?"

Sam huffed and waited for the others to be out of earshot. "I don't trust her, Dean. I just trust her not to sabotage her own interests."

"Oh, so we're here interests now?" Dean asked indignantly. "Why are we her _interests_, Sam?"

"Look, I was going to tell you anyways, you don't need to get all snitty about it," Sam retorted. "I made a deal with her."

"Uh huh." Dean narrowed his eyes. "What kind of deal?"

"She has a message she needs us to carry. She doesn't get a lot of mail service out here, as you can imagine. We can stay here as long as we need to recuperate and we can take as much supplies as we need, as long as we carry this message for her and bring back its reply."

Dean lowered his chin and raised his eyebrows, fixing Sam with his no-bullshit stare. "And what's the catch?"

Sam fidgeted, and chewed his lip. "The message. Its, um, recipient. Is. Well. Dead."

Dean opened his mouth, closed it, and then cocked his head. "You're gonna have to run that by me again."

"She wants to send a message to a dead person," Sam explained with a guilty expression. "So we have to go to the edge of the land of the dead and summon her spirit."

The ensuing string of curses that exploded from Dean's mouth was not suitable for human ears and was loud enough to startle several nearby birds from their nests. It continued vehemently for several minutes until finally he exhausted himself and he concluded, " –fuckingmoronasshatgodDAMNIT, Sam! You _took_ that deal?"

"It was that or swine crew!" Sam exclaimed. "So yeah, I took it!"

"You should have just killed her!" Dean shot back.

"Swine. CREW!" Sam repeated exasperatedly. "Killing her wouldn't turn them back! Besides, we can't go around killing everyone we meet."

"We're _pirates_," Dean spat. "We're _supposed_ to kill everyone we meet."

"_You're _a pirate," Sam said. "I'm a doctor."

Dean started to grumble about pussy doctors and their pussy ways.

"Oh, and, by the way?" Sam added. "I don't buy your little fruit story for a second."

Dean shut up.

Sam smirked with sharp eyes, and turned to walk in the mansion. "Let me know when you've come up with a better lie."

Dean ground his teeth and followed him in a few seconds later, reminding himself that fratricide was frowned upon in most circles, even amongst thieves.

….

Bela was nothing if not the perfect hostess. It seemed her mansion was a labyrinth of endless inexplicable rooms, and each pirate got his own bedchambers. A full wait staff emerged from some hidden corridor and directed them to a large bath hall. Unlike the steamy Turkish baths a few of them had experienced, this one had large hot pools set into the tile floor, big enough to accommodate ten or so men. They were able to strip off their threadbare rags and slide into gloriously hot water and soak away their troubles. The servants were odd; they were nondescript white men and women, and they all looked similar to each other, related. They did not speak, and their eyes drifted vacantly. The men who had been wolves confirmed that they were harmless, though, and the pirates relaxed in their presence.

Jo had a slight problem.

"Excuse me." She tapped the arm of her blank-faced maid. "I shouldn't bathe here."

The maid stared at her.

"I'm. I'm a woman," Jo explained hesitantly. "Is there another bath?"

The maid opened her mouth, and said tonelessly, "Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaa."

Jo stared.

The maid turned away and left the room.

So Jo looked back at the crew, who were conversing merrily with each other in their pools and lounging with closed eyes, and she rubbed the coarse edge of her shirt between her thumb and forefinger. It had been encrusted with salt along the hem, and it was stained and torn in countless places.

She looked to pool where Sam bathed with Dean, Ash, and Barnes, and watched Sam and Dean studiously pretend to ignore each other while obviously kicking each other under the water.

They wouldn't let anything happen to her.

Sam would keep her safe.

She wiggled her bare toes on the tile, her heel brown with dirt and grime.

Jo took a deep breath, and pulled her shirt over her head.

By the time she had rid herself of all her clothing the pirates had fallen quiet, a hushed murmuring bubbling low across the pools; Ash said something to Sam and Dean and they turned to look. She raised her chin high and strode over to their pool and stepped into the deliciously exhilarating water.

All four of the others sat at the other side of the pool, staring.

"What's the matter?" Jo asked testily. "You never seen a naked woman before?"

For a moment, the pirates were completely dumbstruck.

Then Ash grinned, resting his elbows behind him on the edge of the pool, and he said, "Nah, we just never seen one with such small tits."

Suddenly the spell was broken. Jo splashed water in his face and cursed him out, and the others laughed and goaded him to fight back. The rest of the bath was relaxing and enjoyable, Barnes relating his experiences as a wolf and explaining how the men of the Impala stumbled upon the island, and Dean telling the tale of the flower-eaters and their strange dark island, as well as his and Castiel's narrow escape from the edge of death by way of magic fruit.

That's when Barnes sat up and looked over Dean's shoulder. "Hey, speak of the devil."

Dean refused to turn and look. He was not going to look. He was really not going to look. He already had a former bedmate naked in the tub with him and he was barely holding onto his libido as it was; he did _not_ need to see Castiel nude and enter awkward public erection territory. Except for at the last second his head jerked against his will and his eyes landed in the inevitable place and _fuck he was looking_.

He didn't see much, really. In an instant he forced his eyes upward and that was okay, except _crap now it was awkward eye contact_ and Cas was taking it as an invitation to come over, no no no no no, eyes up, eyes up, but even still those goddamn _shoulders_ and that stupid _face_ of his and now Cas was stepping into the tub, sliding into the hot water, and the steam obscured everything but damn it. God fucking damn it. Just knowing he was naked under the water was doing terrible things to Dean and he needed to chill the hell out.

So he said, "You should have seen the pus that was leaking out of Cas's wound. We really thought he was a goner."

Yeah. Pus. That should do it.

Jo shuddered and wrapped her arms around herself. "It was horrible. And the smell, God, the smell."

"I should be dead," Castiel said rather candidly. "I'm lucky to have survived."

Ash snorted. "Beyond lucky. Try miraculous."

And that's when Dean remembered something –

_I'm kind of the reason they call you lucky._

If Zeus was the one keeping Dean lucky, then who exactly was watching out for Castiel? Because now there was no doubt about it in Dean's mind: _somebody_ was watching out for Cas. And now that he thought about it, Cas's story about being chased out of town didn't really explain the sack perfectly polished Spanish coins he'd presented Dean with at the start of this insane voyage, seeing as Brazil was a Portuguese colony, or his convenient knowledge of what the poison flowers were doing to them, or the fact that the gibberish language he'd spouted in his delirium and then used to call forth ocean magic in hindsight had sounded a little fucking _Greek_.

"I need to go," Dean said, jumping up and stepping out of the pool. "I just realized I have to pee."

"Just go in the water," Ash encouraged. "It's already warm!"

The others groaned in disgust and began trying to heckle Ash out of the pool while Dean grabbed a fluffy white towel from a nearby rack and hurried to the door. A dull looking servant ushered him into a smaller room and brought out a set of clothing Dean didn't recognize. They seemed to be the right sizes, though, and Dean yanked on some underthings and a pair of black pants that had evidently been stolen from a naval commander. The loose white tunic was woven with softer cotton than he had ever felt before, and he took a moment to admire it before scrubbing the towel angrily over his head. The servant blearily offered him a razor but Dean pushed it away, growling, "I'll shave later." He marched out of the room and down the hallway, with little idea of how to get back to their rooms but enough furious energy to persist until he found them.

Instead, he came upon a large round staircase with a mahogany rail and followed it up to a large engraved door. With the kind of impatient carelessness that Dean had perfected over years of acting first and thinking later, he threw it open and strode into the room.

It was the master bedroom, cleanly and simply decorated; red burgundy carpeting and thick burgundy drapes over enormous windows, a soft off-white wallpaper painted with twining dusty pink roses and a matching bedspread on the sprawling four poster bed in the center of the room. To the side there was a light maple wardrobe and a matching vanity, and the most incredibly poised woman sat at it on an upholstered stool, brushing her loosely curled hair.

Dean regretted not having trimmed his beard. Or combed his hair.

The woman spun on her stool to face him with entirely disingenuous surprise. Her silk Oriental robe hung casually off her shoulders and barely concealed her breasts, and he had a feeling it was entirely purposeful. "May I help you?" she asked, her vowels crisp with British influence and legacy.

"You must be Bela," he said.

She smiled. "And you must be Captain Dean. I've heard so much about you."

Dean curled his lip in a sneer. "Yeah, well, I've heard about you and your little animal fetish. Cute."

She stood up smoothly, satin ribbon, a woman with liquid movement. "It's not a fetish, Dean," she corrected. "My propensity for tying men to my bed is a fetish. My fondness for animals is merely an interest."

Dean swallowed and tried to look offended.

Bela smiled wider. "You'd be all too easy," she said, businesslike. "Your brother Sam, he's angry. He'd struggle and fight it the entire time. But you…" She looked him up and down. "Oh, you'd break easily. I'd have you begging."

"Are we still talking about sex?" Dean demanded. "Because I think you're doing it wrong."

She stepped forward, letting one shoulder of the robe fall just a fraction lower. "Why? Because I like to take charge?"

Dean forced himself not to look down.

Bela raised an eyebrow. "You're so transparent, Dean. Why don't you just stop this charade and get on the bed?"

"You're a witch, right?" Dean growled. "Why the fuck would I trust you in bed?"

She grinned. "Danger is part of the thrill, Dean. Bedding me is like a particularly pleasurable game of Russian roulette."

Dean glared. "I'm not a gambler."

She sighed and rolled her eyes, and then held up two fingers. "Fine, I solemnly swear to all the gods that I will do nothing more than try and achieve a satisfying climax. Does that appease you?"

"Wait," he blurted suddenly. "Can witches heal people?"

Bela frowned. "I can, if that's what you're asking, but I'm an immortal. It's rather rare. I could manage it easily, but most witches aren't that powerful."

"That's what I thought," he said bitterly, his mind turning dark and black.

"Enough talk." Bela untied her belt and slid it out, letting her robe hang loose and open. As quick as a breath she pressed her body against him and kissed him wantonly, savage and sharp and hungry, and Dean couldn't help but kiss back just as fierce, his body kicking into familiar overdrive.

When she pulled away he could see the predatory excitement and anticipation in her face. "So, Captain," she said, "care to take a roll of the dice?"

Dean pulled off his shirt and muttered, "I'm feeling lucky."

He told himself it had nothing to do with Cas.

That lying bastard Cas.


	13. Chapter 13

A/N:_ My super, somnambulist readers! I have another installment for you, but first, some notes: _

_1) Harsh language. There is some explicit language in this chapter that is almost certainly M but I hate making a story M purely for bad words. I feel it's misleading. It implies a bunch of graphic naughty business that I'm not willing to commit to yet. If you're underage and these words shock you then I apologize, and I recommend you eat some chocolate as therapy and stop using the internet. _

_2) Experimentation with style. I'm trying some different stuff in this chapter, and I hope you'll let me know if it works. The first section is written as dialogue without tags, and I continued the rest in present tense. When I switched into the present tense for the lotus-eater stuff, I intended for it to be a temporary switch, but once I switched back to past tense it felt... more passive, somehow. I realized I like the present tense for giving it a sense of action and immediacy. Soooo I'm arbitrarily switching back. SCUMBAG AUTHOR LOLOLOLOLOL_

_3) Your reward this update for reviewing is that I will desperately try to get you the next update in a timely manner. I'm going to be very busy for the next few days and getting in the writing time will be hard, but if you review I will do my absolute damnedest to get it done. _

_Also, I'll knit you a sweater with Cas's face on it or something. I DON'T KNOW I'M RUNNING OUT OF IMAGINARY MERCHANDISE HERE._

_ Enjoy the chapter!_

* * *

"Well. That was enjoyable. You performed better than I expected."

"Hnnh. You. Very good."

"I'll take that as a compliment. We should do it again."

"Christ, just… give me a few minutes, woman…"

"I don't mean right now_._ I mean in the near future. Perhaps tomorrow."

"Oh."

"Not that I'm averse to right now; I'm just realistic in my expectations."

"So you're just gonna pencil me in your date book, then? Is that how this works?"

"Naturally."

"One o'clock: lunch. Two thirty: water the hydrangeas. Three o'clock: light fucking with Dean!"

"Don't be crass."

"So saying 'fuck' is crass, but actual sexual intercourse isn't?"

"Of course not. Not the way I do it."

"…."

"Admit it. I'm right."

"Just because you're classy doesn't make you less of a whore."

"Calling me a whore doesn't make _you_ more of a man."

"….."

"Don't project your inadequacy issues on me. I won't stand for it."

"I don't have inadequacy issues."

"Look me in the eyes and say that again."

"…."

"If it's any comfort, I find you very adequate."

"Oh, gee, thanks. I've always wanted to be _adequate!_"

"I'm a rather convincing liar, Dean. You should be flattered by my honesty."

"Is this honesty?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I find your bravado pathetically endearing. You're like a little puppydog barking at a mirror."

"Okay, you know what? Cancel our lunch date."

"Am I hitting a nerve?"

"No, you're just pissing me off."

"You shouldn't be offended. I'm only a whore, after all."

"… I'm sorry."

"That's convenient."

"I didn't mean it. I just… Wait, why am I apologizing? You turned my friends into animals. I don't owe you shit!"

"And yet you're here, tied to my bed."

"Jesus, Bela, you're just… you're like the devil, you know that? I don't even know what I'm doing here. Untie me."

"You were looking for someone else. You stumbled upon me."

"No, I was looking for our rooms. I wanted to…"

"You wanted to what?"

"Never mind. Untie me already."

"It's no accident that you found my suite, Dean."

"I had a feeling it wasn't. I would feel a lot more comfortable with this conversation if you untied my hands."

"Fine."

"…."

"….."

"_Thank_ you."

"I find it interesting that you didn't ask earlier."

"Maybe I was hoping for round two."

"Perhaps you were hoping to cuddle."

"What? No."

"You're terrible at lying."

"I'm not lying."

"I don't mind cuddling, from time to time when the mood strikes me. Would you like to try it?"

"_NO._"

"Lie back down."

"Ugh. Bela."

"Lie. Down."

"_Fine _Jesus if you're gonna be so goddamn demanding about it I _will_ goddamn woman…"

"…."

"…."

"I do like this, actually."

"Hmmm."

"You're perfectly built for it."

"You gonna keep talking?"

"As long as I like."

"Christ."

"….."

"So…. You've slept with a lot of guys, haven't you?"

"Yes. I don't see why I shouldn't."

"Have you ever… been with a, uh, a woman?"

"…. A few times."

"Really?"

"I'm adventurous. As you know."

"What was it like?"

"It was… different. When I look at women, they don't excite me the way men do. When I see a beautiful woman I tend more towards jealousy than attraction. But there have been a few rare women, who, for whatever reason… I'm drawn to them. And the sex with them is very good."

"Better than me?"

"One was."

"So why didn't you keep her around?"

"I did. But everyone leaves eventually."

"… You didn't stop her? Turn her into a hedgehog or something?"

"I couldn't."

"Why not?"

"She died."

"…."

"…."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. You have nothing to do with it."

"…."

"Would you like to try round two now?"

"Holy _balls,_ Bela. You were just talking about your _dead lover_. I'm not in the mood."

"Then perhaps you should tell me your secrets."

"What?"

"I'm bored and I'm curious. I want to know what you're hiding."

"Oh, yeah, 'cause that'll never backfire on me."

"I'll find out one way or another."

"I'll take my chances."

"It's a man, isn't it?"

"_What?_"

"You didn't ask me that question out of the blue. You're attracted to a man."

"_No I'm not._ I just wanted an image to jack off to later!"

"Disgusting, and completely false. It's someone on your crew."

"That - that-that doesn't make any sense. You're just pulling shit out of thin air."

"It's not that little blonde cabin boy, is it?"

"She's a woman!"

"Oh. I missed that. Awfully butch, isn't she?"

"Look, the only problems weighing on my mind concern the fact that I am on a _different plane of existence_ than the one I'm used to and magic is real and the _gods_ are real, and Poseidon wants me dead and I have a mole in the crew that I haven't decided what to do about yet. That's _it_. And -"

"That was incredibly easy."

" - also what the _fuck_ is up with your servants? They are weirding everyone the fuck out and – oh."

"Your brother really is the smart one, isn't he?"

"Shut up."

"My servants were once a flock of sheep. I successfully gave them opposable thumbs but they seem to have retained their original brain capacity. They follow instructions excellently, though."

"… That is beyond messed up."

"They seem happy enough."

"You know, this has been just a grand old time and all but I really need to get going before the others start looking for me."

"No one is stopping you."

"Oh really?"

"Unless you _want_ me to stop you."

"Well, that depends. You gonna stop me with your mouth?"

"I might."

"Might or will? Let's cut the bullshit, Bela, because time is mmmMMmmm-"

"…. Mmm…"

"…."

…..

After the bath house, the pirates are directed to the dining hall, where a cold buffet has been prepared for supper. Dean is nowhere to be seen, and neither is Bela; Castiel suspects that wherever they are, they are together. Perhaps Dean has gone to discuss the journey to the edge of the world that she's requesting. Castiel has never met Bela, but he has heard of her and her wiles, and he hopes Dean was being suitably cautious. He eats his lunch in silence, largely ignored by the other pirates. He doesn't mind. He isn't a part of their culture, a part of their clan. He does not marvel at the existence of magic or desire to debate what exactly had blown them into this strange sea. Every so often Sam directs a friendly question his way, and he answers in kind.

Sam is trying to include him. Castiel appreciates the gesture, but it's not needed.

At the end of lunch, a woman enters the hall with a proud stride, and Castiel stops eating to stare. Light brown hair coiled on the side of her head and wearing a sheer white summer frock, a strand of pearls at her throat and one in each ear, she glows with self-satisfaction and power.

This has to be Bela.

She sits down in throne and snaps her fingers, and a servant brings her a plate of food. "I hope you're enjoying the spread, everyone," she says. "Think of it as my apology."

The pirates make grudging noises of assent.

"We'll crack open the rum shortly," she informs them.

The pirates cheer.

The door creaks open, and a man enters hesistantly. He's dressed informally but his clothes are fine, black knit pants and a loose white tunic, and his short brown hair is parted to the side. It takes Castiel a second glance at his face to realize that…

It's _Dean._

The pirates fall quiet. Dean pulls up a chair and glances at the others, noticing the sudden silence.

"Dean," Sam says in a tone of awe, "you _shaved_."

Dean shrugs and tucks into his food. "I felt like a change."

"Dean," Jo says, staring bug-eyed. "I've never seen you without a beard. You look so – _young_."

"I _am_ young!" Dean retorts. "I'm young and strong and virile and I'll fight anybody who says otherwise!"

Bela smirks to herself.

Ash is sitting at his right side, and he squints and peers at Dean. "You know, I never noticed what delicate features you have."

"I _will_ fight you, Ash. And I know how attached you are to that nose, so watch it."

Castiel can't tear his eyes away. Every facet of his face is new, suddenly readable, suddenly bare, and Castiel wonders if Dean has always been this engrossing or if he simply never noticed.

Dean sees him staring. "What are you lookin' at?"

"You," Castiel answers.

This answer seems to disturb Dean, and he mutters something to Sam, who laughs.

"Jo," Bela says, "I apologize for the… incident with the bath earlier. I was not aware there was a woman among your crew." She smiles, a smile that is meant to be conciliatory and endearing. "I'll send a few dresses down, and I can have my hairdresser stop by your room after lunch, if you like."

Jo smiles sarcastically. "No thanks," she says. "I already have a cunt. I don't need to look like one."

Dean chokes.

Sam laughs in shock.

Bela's eyes and nostrils flare wide.

Jo shrugs and takes a swig of ice water. "She turned me into a pig."

"Well." Bela picks up her glass with tight fingers and a careful voice. "I can see you truly are a sailor. You have the mouth for it."

Jo bats her eyelashes sweetly. "Wow, thanks! Would you like me to tell you which career _your _mouth is suited for?"

"Alright, that's enough," Dean cuts her off. "Bitch she may be, but she is our hostess. Let's be civil."

"By the way, Dean," Sam says innocently. "Where were you just now?"

Dean chews. "What do you mean?"

"Just now." Sam gazes at him with blank inquiry. "After you left the bath house and before you came here. Where were you?"

Dean reddens and reaches over to snatch a roll. "None of your business."

Jo and Sam exchange a knowing glance. Castiel feels some confusion, but he does not speak up. He hates to betray his foreignness to social innuendo.

Then Dean's eyes dart sideways to Bela, and he understands.

What he does not understand is the strange feeling that surges through him, a hot flush of resentment towards Bela and the desire to wrench her arm behind her back until she cries out for mercy. It has no foundation in anything logical and yet it persists. He watches her eat beautifully, prettily, and he dislikes her for it. He has no reason to but he does. He dislikes her stupid face immensely.

Being human is difficult.

Soon a wall-eyed servant rolls in a few casks of rum, and a great chorus of joy goes up among the sailors, and they fill their glasses and tip them together and sing songs of the sea and a faraway home, and they drink and are merry.

The party lasts well into the night.

…..

Bela stands along the wall of the ballroom, surveying her handiwork with satisfaction.

Sam ambles up next to her and leans against the wall, his arms crossed, his mug of rum pressed to his bicep. "You look happy."

She smiles, that Cheshire grin of hers. "Everyone is enjoying themselves. Why shouldn't I be happy?"

Sam rolls his eyes. "I don't know, because you're a sorceress who turns people into animals for sport?"

"Such a pessimist." She eyes him up and down. "The bath did you good."

"And Dean, too, I'm assuming?" he retorts. "I notice it only took one meeting for him to get up to his usual act."

Her green eyes sparkle. "Dean is excellent at what he does, and I'm hoping to see more of his work soon, but I'd love to see what you have to offer. Any chance I could entice you into a ménage a trois?"

Sam stares at her, barely able to believe his ears. "Are you – are seriously inviting me to a threesome with my own _brother?_ No! Hell no! That's disgusting! I don't even want to be in the same _building_ as my brother while he's having sex, much less participating!"

"I knew it was a long shot," she sighs. "But I'd never live with myself if I didn't at least try." She glances at him sideways. "A solo session is still on the table."

"No thanks. Don't get me wrong, I'd love to get my hands on you, but I don't take sloppy seconds." Sam blinks, surprised at his own blunt words, and looks down into his mug. "What did you put in this rum, anyways?"

"Oh, nothing," Bela says nonchalantly. "Just a lot of alcohol and a small but potent truth serum."

Sam's jaw drops. "_What?_"

She smiles and saunters away, looking back at him all the while. "Think of it as a favor to Dean," she calls.

"He _asked _for this?" Sam shouts.

She smiles even wider. "Of course not."

…..

Castiel retires to his room with a spinning head and a thousand melodies running through his mind. He hasn't drunk this much since – ever.

Hahaha. He's never even been _drunk_.

Hahahaha. Hahahahahaha.

Pull it together, Castiel.

Then slowly, steadily, he hears the door creak shut behind him.

The room is dark.

"Hello, Dean," he says.

He feels the cold pressure of a knife on his throat and Dean's thumb digging into the back of his neck. "Alright, Castiel," Dean growls in his ear, "it's time for some answers."


	14. Chapter 14

A/N: _My darling ducklings! You responded last chapter with an emphatic "YES PLS MOAR NOAW QUICKLEY PLSSSSS", so I hurried to get this chapter to the presses AND it's extra long! I _even gave up time with loved ones_ to write this! I know you're all skipping over this part anyway due to sexual frustration, so I'll be brief: Your reward for reviewing this chapter is Misha Collins wearing a sock monkey hat, a felt mustache, and the blue snowflake sweater from "The French Mistake." Mix and match his accessories to create up to SIX DIFFERENT COMBINATIONS! WOW! Also, I will continue to make fic-writing a priority in spite of our impending national holiday, so. Realize how important this is. I will _forsake national pride in favor of homoerotic fiction_ if you review. _

_Enjoy the chapter!_

* * *

Castiel feels dizzy, and he struggles to stay completely still; he doesn't want to lean into Dean's knife and slit his own throat. "I'll answer your questions," he says slowly. "Just let me turn around, and I'll disarm you."

Then Castiel blinks.

That isn't what he meant to say at all.

Dean's fingers dig harder into his neck, and he chuckles darkly. "I asked Bela to slip something in your drink. A little truth potion. You're not gonna wriggle out of this one."

Castiel's heart sinks heavily into his gut. He is tired of this game and too drunk to connive; he is trapped. "Alright, I'll talk, just… put your knife down. I won't run away."

Dean hesitates.

Castiel sighs in exasperation. "I'm telling the truth, aren't I?" He reaches up to yank Dean's hand away, and -

Suddenly the door bursts open and fills the room with light, and a bland-faced servant bustles in with a lamp and walks toward them.

Dean and Castiel freeze wide-eyed, a guilty tableau.

The servant brushes past them and hurries to the fireplace, where he takes a few logs from the metal holder and stacks them neatly, taking flint and steel from his pocket and striking them until the spark catches. He blows gently on the small flame until the tinder lights a log, and then stands up, satisfied with the crackling fire.

"Thank you," Castiel says, Dean's blade still pressed to his throat.

"Yeah, uh, nice job," Dean adds.

"Baaaaaaaaa," the servant intones. He bobs his head and leaves as hastily as he arrived.

As soon as the door shuts Cas jerks Dean's wrist and spins around. "What are your questions?" he growls. "I resent being drugged and threatened, you s_nake_."

Dean wrenches his arm away and glares, the edge of the blade still turned towards Castiel. Now that Castiel can see his face, all that hot-blooded fury scowling at him, he strangely feels more afraid than he did at the edge of the knife.

"Me, the snake?" Dean asks incredulously. "You've been lying to me since the day you boarded my ship. MY ship. You make insinuations the whole journey about how much you hate me and then you save my life, you heal my arm, and then you feed me some cockamamie story about being a, a, a _witch!_" He raises the knife again, points it towards Castiel's heart, and bares his teeth. "Tell me now: _who are you?_"

Castiel swallows, and exhales, and looks Dean in the eyes. "I am a servant of Poseidon," he says, "and I am your ally."

…

**Meanwhile, in a Less Exciting Place**

Sam finds Jo sitting on the rooftop, looking up at the stars. "How'd you get up there?" he calls from the balcony.

"I climbed up the windowsill," she calls back. "Come on up."

He joins her on the rooftop and tells her about Bela and the truth serum.

Jo shakes her head and takes another deep drink of her rum. "Good thing I've got nothing to hide anymore, or else I'd have to go fight that bitch."

"Yeah, but even without secrets…" Sam runs an anxious hand through his hair. "Nobody should be a hundred percent honest. I mean, I was kinda rude to her. I feel bad about that."

"Don't," Jo admonishes him. "Manners are just another weapon she uses. This isn't hospitality she's showing us, it's her exercising her _control_. This shit with her spiking the rum should teach you that. She's fucking smart, Sam, and we're in her territory. Don't forget that."

Sam gazes at her in admiration, and tucks a loose strand of her blonde hair behind her ear. "Your hair's getting long."

Jo grins and darts a hand to his head, ruffles his hair. "So's yours."

"Touché," he admits, chuckling, and he shakes his head to settle it.

"I miss the other island."

Sam looks at her, surprised.

Jo's eyes are out toward the horizon, the deep black sea that's almost invisible in the darkness. "We were always together there, and I never felt… I never felt uncomfortable, you know? I never thought about what it might look like or what other people would think, I was just… happy." She draws her knees up and perches her head on them. "Now we're here with everybody else, and there's this distance between us. I go to hug you and I stop myself. I feel you look at me but when I turn my head you look the other way."

Sam nods. "Things are different now. We're more self-conscious. Even now, I want to put my arm around you but I'm afraid to; I'm afraid to let things be that easy between us. I feel like I need to be the gentleman."

She smiles. "I'm no lady."

"You are to _me_," he says earnestly.

There's a moment of silence on the rooftop.

"Sam." Jo's eyes turn to him, and it makes a lump in Sam's throat. Her voice is quiet. "Do you have feelings for me?"

Sam gazes at her helplessly, and every possible word scatters from his mind except for one.

"Yes."

….

**But Back in the Exciting Place **

Dean grabs Cas's shirt in his fist and brandishes the knife. "You got about ten seconds to explain yourself before I split you from stem to stern."

He can see Cas tense up, but he's not sure if it's with fear or anger. His cheeks are flushed with alcohol and his eyes are dark but steady. "I am human now," Cas says, "but I wasn't always. I was a Nereid, a sea-nymph. I lived in the service of Poseidon. He transformed me into a human and commanded me to board your ship."

Dean's fingers clench tighter as he feels his rage boil over, bubbling hot. "_Why?_"

"Poseidon may be a god, but he is not omniscient," he says. "Zeus keeps him from seeing you from afar. He needed me to follow you, to track you. He made me human so that the other gods would not notice me, but I can still perform magic like any witch. I conjured the storm, the one that blew you out of the Caribbean and into this sea of myth, and I reported where you landed to my superiors."

Dean drags Cas closer and pushes the knife against his shirt with burning certainty. "I'm gonna kill you," he growls.

"Then you're stupider than I thought," Cas spits back, the firelight flickering orange across his face.

Dean grinds his teeth and forces himself to hold back. "Oh yeah?"

"Do you think a man loyal to Poseidon would save your life?" Cas demands. "Do you think I would risk the wrath of a god to heal a man I wanted to kill? Even now I do not dare enter the water again for fear that _they_ will expect answers of me." He grabs Dean's wrist and wrenches it tightly, forcing him to drop the knife. "The only reason you are still breathing is because of _me._"

Dean winces and buckles a little, barely keeping from crying out. Cas releases his wrist and he pulls it back, glaring at him all the while. "Why? Why are you helping me?"

Cas gazes at him evenly. "Because the only reason _I'm_ still breathing is because of _you_," he says in a low voice. "Because you're a good man who doesn't deserve to die. Because when I look at you, I feel… compelled."

Dean's heart skitters in its beat, and then surges back in anger when he realizes what he's doing. "Yeah, well, I don't want your help!" he snaps. "And I didn't do shit for you that anybody else wouldn't've done!"

Cas laughs.

It's such an alien sound that Dean can't do anything but stare.

"You have no idea, do you?" Cas says, shaking his head. "I wasn't the only one dying on that beach, Dean. They didn't leave you with me to watch over me. They left you because you weren't going to make it walking all that way."

A creeping horror crawls up Dean's chest, and he takes a step back.

"You couldn't see the stitches down your back," Cas goes on, his eyes growing distant with memory. "I would wake up in the night, lucid for a moment, and I would look over… They were getting worse by the day, infected. I don't know how you didn't feel it. Maybe you simply blocked it out. You were barely able to stand…"

Dean remembers staggering out of the boat, falling onto the sand, Sam helping him back up.

"And I was as good as dead. I could barely speak, barely think… and you understood." Cas meets Dean's eyes, serious and calm. "You carried me down to the water, and ripped open the stitches down your shoulder. I was slung over your shoulder and I could see the blood running down your back…"

"I thought that was sweat," Dean whispers.

"You nearly died saving my life." Cas sways a little and puts his hand to the bedpost for support. "And you didn't even _like_ me. How can I think of you as anything less than a hero?"

And something about the way he says it, and the way it makes Dean's throat tight and tugged at the center of his chest… he can't. He can't let it. So he grabs Cas by the collar with both hands and shakes him and snarls, "I'm not your fucking _hero_!"

And just like that, he finds himself slammed against the opposite wall, Cas's hands pressed into his shoulders and his face savage and too close to Deans and he demands harshly, "_Why_ do you insist on hating me?"

_Because you annoy the shit out of me_, Dean is about to say. _Because you're not even human. Because you're a sneaky lying bastard and I don't want to be your fucking friend. _

But what comes out of his mouth is a gasping, "Because you make me feel _wrong things!_"

That's when he realizes:

Bela got him too.

She got him with the truth potion.

Cas frowns at Dean. "You hate me because I make you feel wrong things?" he repeats. He clenches Dean's shoulders tight. "It's not my fault what you feel. I can't control that!"

"No," Dean groans, wishing he could stop talking. "I feel wrong things around you and it makes me frustrated with myself, and I get angry at you because I'm so frustrated."

Cas peers at him, leaning in too close, his blue eyes too dark and intense, and he asks in that low, gravelly voice that scrapes at Dean's skin, "What kinds of 'wrong things'?"

"Please," Dean begs. "I don't want to say."

He can practically see the gears turning in Cas's head.

"The truth spell," Cas says. "She gave it to you too, didn't she?"

"Seems like," Dean admits through clenched teeth.

A tiny smirk pulls up the corner of Castiel's mouth.

Fuck.

Castiel leans in even closer, so close Dean can smell the rum on him. "Tell me," he says. "_What kinds of things?_"

The words rip out of Dean involuntarily, no matter how hard he struggles to keep them in, leaving him breathless. "I – I – w-want to touch you," he gasps.

Cas's eyebrows furrow together, and he slides one hand down from Dean's shoulder, to his chest, to the skin exposed by the open v of his tunic.

A thrill of arousal races through Dean, speeding his heart and coursing in his blood, and he can't control the way his chest rises and falls so quickly and betrays him.

"I'm touching you now," Cas says. "I don't see what's wrong."

"No, I - I mean…" Dean tries to turn his face away, tries to hide but there's nowhere he can go, and even his body turns against him and heats with the thought. "I w-w-w-want to _touch_ you. All over."

Cas presses Dean's shoulders tighter against the wall, and his eyes go just a fraction blacker, and

his nostrils flare

and

he sucks in a breath

and the light flickers across his flushed face and suddenly Dean can see the blackness in his eyes

is

_hungry_.

And it all comes tumbling out.

"Every time I look at your stupid face I want to touch you," Dean pants. "I want to put my hands all over you and every inch of your skin and I want to drag your body against mine, oh _fuck_ I want you so bad Cas, so fucking bad –"

"Dean," Cas says, his breath quickening.

"- and I want to rip off your clothes and pin you down, you have no idea how many fucking times I've thought that," Dean rushes on, forbidden words pouring out of him, "and it's like this itch I can't ever scratch this unbearable _need_ to touch you and grab you and oh I want to make you moan my name again and again –"

"_Dean_," Cas says again, more urgently, more breathless, his face flushing redder.

"- and I've barely even let myself _think_ this stuff much less say it out loud and you push me up against the wall, Cas, and I'm so fucking turned on I think I could come if you moved the right way," he babbles, "and I don't know what's wrong with me because I've never been like this about a man –"

And suddenly Cas pushes his mouth against Dean's and presses their bodies together.

There is a moment before Dean thinks again.

It is a moment of sheer pleasure, soft warm lips and hot hard bodies and hungry noises escaping him, a moment of pure adrenaline and a hundred thirsts quenched and a thousand more awakened, a moment of squeezed-shut eyes and impatient roaming hands and eager hips, and for this moment the only word in Dean's hazy mind is

_want_

But then the moment ends

And Dean's eyes snap open.

He pushes Cas back. "No," he gasps, "this is wrong."

"Dean," Cas pleads, his hair mussed and his eyes confused. "Wait."

Dean pushes past him and staggers to the door, saying, "I'm sorry I can't I'm sorry," and he runs down the hall and into his own room and locks the door.

He falls against the wall and slides to the floor and wishes he'd dropped dead on that godforsaken island of flowers.

….

**The Quiet Place Once Again**

"Sam, there's… There's things you don't know about me." Jo shivers and holds her knees closer.

"I know about Dean," he tells her. "I don't care."

She looks at him, and after a minute she smiles. "That means a lot," she says, "but that's not what I'm talking about."

Sam cracks a half-hearted smile. "You're not secretly a guy, are you?"

Jo laughs lightly and closes her eyes. Then she sighs and says, "I'm married, Sam."

Sam's breath catches in his chest.

"It's kind of the reason I became a pirate." She runs a hand through her hair.

Sam scoots closer, and he crosses his legs, and asks in a soft voice, "Could you tell me about it?"

Jo nods. She sits silently for a moment, gathering her thoughts. "My father was a merchant in Hispaniola, so we were well off," she finally began. "There were several men who liked me… I found one I liked back. I was only eighteen when we were married, but it didn't make any sense to wait. We loved each other. He was so excited to start a family." A tear slides down her cheek and she brushes it off like it's just a smudge of dirt. "My mother warned me I might have a difficult pregnancy. I was her only child for a reason, after all."

"You lost the baby," Sam whispers.

She folds her lips inward and nods. "I had five miscarriages in two years."

Sam doesn't know what to say.

Her chin trembles, and she swallows hard. "I told him I wanted to stop trying, and he didn't understand why. That's when I realized I was never going to be the kind of wife he wanted. The kind of wife _anyone _would want." She takes a deep, shaky breath. "I knew ships, from my father's business, and I knew I how easily could run away, so I did. I cut off my hair and stole some clothes and signed on with a privateer. A year or so later I signed on with the Impala for better pay." She shrugs and smiles with damp eyes. "So here I am! Still married and a pirate."

Sam reaches his arm around her and pulls her in close to his side. "A pretty decent one."

She huffs a laugh and leans into him, lets her head rest on his shoulder.

"Look, Jo, if this is you trying to tell me that you just want to be friends, then, I'll respect that," Sam says quietly. "That was sort of my plan originally. But if this is you trying to scare me off, then…" He gives her a light squeeze. "It's not working."

"_Sam_," Jo sighs. She reaches up to the collar of his shirt and fiddles with it. "This is me trying to tell you that we shouldn't."

"Why?" Sam asks. "Who says?"

"You're always saying, 'I'm not a pirate, I'm a doctor.'" Jo finishes straightening his collar and lets her hand rest on his. "You don't belong on any ship. You're too good. You belong in England, being respectable, saving lives…" She sighs again. "And I don't."

"We might never get back to England," Sam argues. "Right now, we'll be lucky if we get back to the Caribbean. Why should we plan that far ahead?"

She twines her fingers through his. "Because I love you."

Silence falls again on the rooftop.

Sam stares at their hands, clasped together. "You love me?"

Jo nods. "I don't know if it's meant to be more than this, what we have, right now," she says, "but I do love you."

"Platonically, you mean," Sam interprets. "Like a brother."

She sighs. "If it weren't for this damn truth serum, I could say yes, and we'd be done with this conversation." She flexes her fingers. "But it's not exactly true. I feel a little bit more than platonic, Sam, but this is enough." She turns her face up to him, soft and sweet. "I could live like this forever and be happy enough."

Sam thinks about this idea for a moment, turning their hands over. "I think I could be too," he says slowly, "if I only knew for certain that we couldn't be happier together."

Jo rubs her thumb in a slow circle. "How about this," she says. "Compromise. When we get to England, I'll buy a dress, and you can take me to the park, or the theatre, and we'll make a go of it." She smiles. "I'll even let you buy me dinner somewhere expensive."

Sam gives her half a smile, and when she puts her head back on his shoulder he rests his cheek on top of it. "I love you too, Jo."

She sighs and presses in closer. "Sucks, doesn't it?"

"Yup."

...

**Dean's Room, Which at the Moment is Very Quiet**

Dean stays for a very long time with his face planted in his bed.

Someone knocks at Dean's door.

"Dean," Cas calls. "Let me in."

"Go away," Dean groans at the door. "Come back when I can lie again. Or when I'm dead."

There's a pause. "You know, you can open this door for me, or I can open it myself."

Christ.

Dean gets up muttering about stupid _Nereids_ and their stupid fucking _magic _and opens the door.

Cas enters the room briskly, a man with a purpose. "You can't just leave like that."

"Cas," Dean says wearily, "I was kind of hoping you would show up but now I think that was stupid. Half of me wants to throw you on the bed and half of me wants to throw myself out the window, and I –"

Castiel glares fiercely. "Dean. You need to stop talking, and let me speak."

Dean shuts up.

"Everything between us is out in the open," he says. "I know you are still angry that I lied, but now you know the truth and why I would conceal it."

Dean looks at the floor and grunts in assent.

"I am new to being human. I can admit that freely now," Cas continues. "For awhile now, I have had... confusing feelings towards you that I could not explain. I did not understand them." His adam's apple bobs. "I believe I do now. And if I am correct..." He glances to Dean's eyes, hesitant. "You feel the same way."

Dean exhales in frustration and crosses his arms. "Basically," he mutters.

Castiel frowns. "But you refuse to act on these feelings because we are two men, and you believe this is wrong."

"Exactly," Dean asserts.

"Even though it's what we both want," Castiel adds with a puzzled look, "and you have no problems breaking any other manner of taboo."

"Yyyyyes," Dean answers more slowly.

"And we will be here on this island of luxury for at least several more days, with nothing to do except eat and drink and be merry until the health of the crew is recovered."

Dean wipes a hand down his chin. "Uhhh. Yeah."

Castiel nods. "I see. I just wanted to be clear on those points." He turns to leave and opens the door.

Dean grabs his arm.

"Cas, wait," he says.

Castiel looks back at him expectantly.

"You think you could send that servant of yours down here?" he asks, completely straight-faced. "Nobody lit my fireplace."

Cas steps back in the room with a dark look and slams the door, and just as it bangs shut the fireplace roars to life with a _whoosh_ and a gust of scorching heat.

"There's your fire," he growls. "Now kiss me before I burn down the island."

Dean grins and complies.


	15. Chapter 15

A/N: _My colorful charming chickadees! I have just found out that I will be heading to my grandparents' lake cabin and staying there until Saturday, so I rushed this update to you. I will have no internet, I repeat, NO INTERNET! MY LIFE IS ENDING. Anyways, this chunk is much shorter than a usual chapter but I figured a tiny chapter was better than no chapter at all. Please review, remember that I love and adore you, and enjoy._

_P.S. I have realized that this story is going to be really long because it's. Well. It's not even half over, by my estimates. Buckle in. In a few chapters, shit's gon' get real._

_Here's the next installment!_

* * *

Castiel wakes up alone.

He finds this strange because it's Dean's room, and he doesn't know why Dean wouldn't wake him up when he left. Perhaps this is usual in these situations. He isn't sure. He wouldn't know.

Bright morning sunlight streams through the windows, clean and fresh and new, and Castiel slides out of bed and gathers up his clothes. His pants ended up hanging over a lamp fixture, somehow. He pulls them down and the thick wool drags over his hands and tugs him into a memory…

He remembers the moment in the warm, quiet dark, after everything had ended, when Dean looked over at him with frightened eyes and said, "I feel so naked."

"We _are_ naked," Castiel had said.

"No," Dean said, putting his hand on Castiel's arm, his fingers trembling. "I mean on the inside."

So Castiel moved closer and slid his hand along Dean's neck, up to his face, and moved his thumb slowly across his cheek.

Dean watched him, his face open and afraid.

Castiel was afraid too, afraid of saying the wrong thing, choosing the wrong words. He often did that. So for a long while he just looked into Dean's eyes and stroked his face with his thumb and searched for a shape to give his thoughts.

Finally he found a voice.

"I have never kissed anyone before," he said quietly. "You are the first."

And Dean's eyes changed, his face shifting into a strange unreadable look, and he sat up and pushed Castiel down on the bed and straddled him, and stared down at him with his lips slightly parted, and bent down and pressed him into the pillow with a deep kiss and put their bodies in motion once more.

Now Castiel stands in the empty sunlit room with his pants draped over his arms, and he wonders if Dean has since decided that he does not like to feel naked.

….

"Dean!" Sam calls down the corridor when he spots his brother leaving the dining hall.

Dean whips around, his face like a deer in the headlights, an apple clutched in each hand.

Sam jogs to catch up with him. "Dean, I need to talk to you about –"

"I'm not Dean!" he proclaims energetically. "I'm a two-headed duck!"

Sam slows. "Uh. What?"

Dean exhales with relief and shakes his head. "Sorry, I just had to test something. We're all good."

Sam realizes what Dean was doing. "Yeah, it wore off sometime in the middle of the night," he tells him. "When I woke up, I could lie again."

"She got you too?" Dean asks incredulously.

"She got everybody," Sam says, rolling his eyes. "She spiked the rum."

Understanding dawns on Dean's face, and he makes an O with his mouth.

Sam crosses his arms. "She said it was a favor to you. Care to explain that?"

"Yeah, uh, I actually have a lot to tell you, just…" He glances down the hall and idly tosses one of the apples in his hands. "I gotta take care of a couple things first. Why don't you meet me in the library in half an hour?"

"There's a library?" Sam asks in surprise.

Dean grins. "What, I beat book-boy at his own game? Just ask one of the servants to take you there." And with that, he turns and strides hurriedly down the hall.

Sam watches him go with deep suspicion.

He's up to something. That much Sam knows.

….

Castiel has just finished dressing when the doorknob turns.

Dean peeks his head in and he lights up when he sees Cas. "Hey!" He enters the room and tosses something to Castiel. "I brought you breakfast."

Castiel fumbles and catches it. It's a yellow apple, fragrant and ripe. He bites into it with a wet crunch and savors the crisp tartness.

He can feel Dean's eyes on him, watching him carefully. "So, uh. You sleep well?"

Castiel nods and continues eating his apple.

Dean scratches the back of his neck and grins nervously. "Boy, things last night got… crazy, huh?"

Castiel senses he is struggling. "Would you like me to leave?" he asks.

Dean frowns in confusion. "What?"

"This is your room," Castiel reminds him. "I'll leave if you want me to."

"Oh, no. That's – fine. That's not what I…" Dean rubs his elbow and licks his lips. "The thing is, that. Um. I just wanted to ask youuuuuu if you wouldn't mind, uh. Keeping this business on the down low."

It's Castiel's turn to frown in confusion, the apple dripping in his hand. "Down low?"

"Yeah, if you could just keep the you and me stuff between you and me," Dean elaborates. "What we did, it'd make the guys upset, so if you could keep it from the crew, and Sam. And Bela. I'd really appreciate it."

Castiel nods. "I won't speak of it."

"Great." Dean smiles in relief. "Perfect. Okay, I gotta go meet Sam and hash some stuff out with him, but, um. Thanks, and. Have a good morning."

Castiel smiles a little and a soft warmth blooms in his chest. He doesn't care that the apple is making his hand sticky; Dean brought it for him, and he wants Castiel to have a good morning. "You're welcome," he says.

Dean looks at him, and licks his lips, and hesitates. Then he seems to change his mind and he takes a big bite of his own apple. "Sheeya later," he garbles around a full mouth, and he leaves.

Castiel stands in the empty room and realizes he is still smiling.

This man will be the death of him.

…..

"A Nereid," Sam repeats.

"Yes," Dean confirms. "I looked it up. They're a thing."

Sam already knows a little about the concept, apparently, and he wastes no time blabbing his stupid knowledge to Dean, blah blah sea nymphs blah blah friendly blah courtiers buh-blah buh-blah blah. Dean can feel his eyes glazing over as he nods absently and zones out.

See, the thing is, sleeping with two people in one day will mess you up. When you have that much sex, it's hard to think about anything else, and Dean can_not_. Stop. Thinking about it.

In the first place, he feels vaguely guilty; he doesn't think Bela would mind about Cas, but they_ did_ sort of agree to do it again and maybe Cas wouldn't like that, but then it's not like he and Cas are an item, is it? Of course not, they aren't even friends really, they're just two dudes who hated each other and then saved each others lives and then had desperate highly-illegal dirty sex several times in a row and _oh my God they're an item, aren't they._

"Dean," Sam snaps, "are you even listening?"

Dean shakes his head and wipes a hand down his face. "Sorry, I just have a lot on my plate right now. That truth potion really did a number on me last night…"

Sam sighs and rubs his forehead. "Yeah, me too."

Dean pricks up with interest. He can hear something under that tone. "What? What did you do?"

Sam won't meet his eyes. "Nothing much, I was just blunt, I guess." He finally looks at Dean, and his eyebrows are knitted with worry. "We need to get home, Dean. We don't belong here."

Dean's heart sinks a little, because that's the opposite of how he feels right now. But he nods and smacks the table for emphasis. "You're right. Time to get our asses in gear, Sammy. Let's find out what exactly Bela wants from us."

…..

Castiel leaves Dean's room and wanders the corridors, finding them surprisingly difficult to navigate. He has the sneaking suspicion that they are moving when his back is turned, rearranging and rerouting, herding him towards some unknown destination.

When he arrives at the foot of a grand carpeted staircase, he knows he is supposed to go up it. He stops at the heavy wooden door, and knocks on it.

The door swings inward, and Bela stands there, wearing nothing but a turquoise silk robe and a pair of matching slippers, her hair loose and tousled.

"Castiel," she greets him, a wide smile curling across her face. "Just who I wanted to see."


	16. Chapter 16

A/N: _My luminous, lackadaisical lightning-bugs. I have managed to find a Starbucks in the nearest town, and free wi-fi is offered here. Though I only have a limited amount of time before I'm due back at the cabin, I thought I would bring you yet another chapter of our saga. I have more I want to say about it but I don't want to spoil anything, so just remember that I love you in a really unhealthy way and I appreciate your reviews. _

_This chapter's reward for reviewing is a LIFE SIZE REPLICA OF THE IMPALA SHIP. An East Indiaman passenger ship retrofitted for war, this pirate's dream sails like a ghost on the water and strikes fear into the heart of her victims. When you see her black flag fluttering in the breeze, you too will know in your soul that the end is near. REVIEW AND ORDER TODAY! _

_Enjoy! _

* * *

Bela gestures for Castiel to sit at a small maplewood table, where a cheese board is laid out next to a bowl of fruit. "Please. Help yourself."

Castiel sits, and his eyes dart to the bowl, where a yellow apple much like the one he just ate is nestled next to a large bunch of oblong green grapes and a few strawberries. "You said you wanted to see me?"

She sits down in the chair next to him and crosses her legs, and he sees that her toenails are painted gold; she plucks a slice of gouda from the cheese board and takes a delicate bite. Her green cat eyes cut at him sideways, and she curls her toes. "Well, yes. I'm rather curious about you. How long have you been human?"

Castiel gazes at her evenly and gives her a hint of a placid smile. "Since I was born."

Bela laughs and tosses her hair and selects a strawberry from the fruit bowl. "Please, Castiel, give me some credit. I know a transformation spell when I see one. Let's not play games."

Castiel feels a twinge of frustration, but he supposes there is nothing she can gain from the knowledge. "Since a week before I boarded the Impala. I don't know how long it's been, since we've lost track of time on this journey. I estimate several months."

She appraises him with her eyes and puts her lips on the strawberry, mouthing it provocatively. "Hmmm."

Castiel's body begins to hum with interest, though he's not sure why. There is nothing about Bela that he likes in an objective sense, but even still his eyes are drawn to the smooth skin along her naked thigh and the lingering of her tongue on her bottom lip. He tightens his fingers around the arm of the chair.

Bela stands up and surveys him, and she steps closer, her fingers trailing across the smooth tabletop. She smells sweet, a scent almost like vanilla coffee. "All that time at sea," she says. "I don't suppose you've ever been with a woman."

"Bela." Castiel fixes her with an off-putting glare. "Are you trying to seduce me?"

She grins and sits on the edge of the table, her silk robe falling off her shoulder and exposing a distressing amount of bare skin. "Not at all. Are you finding yourself seduced?"

"Not at all," Castiel lies.

She laughs again and leans toward him, propping herself on the table with her arm. "Look, I just thought I could make up for what happened last night."

"You mean when you drugged me?" Castiel asks. "I find that hard to forgive."

"No, I mean..." She meets his eyes with a knowing look. "For what happened with Dean."

All the blood drains out of Castiel's face. "What?"

Bela sighs. "I feel badly that it went so poorly, since I sort of… nudged him in your direction."

He says slowly, "I don't know what you're talking about."

Bela reaches back to the fruit bowl and grabs the apple. "You don't have to lie. _I'm_ certainly not going to judge. And you shouldn't feel ashamed that it wasn't all that good; everyone's first try is a little sloppy –"

"It was fine," Castiel says, unable to keep his brows from knotting in confusion, a sick ugly dread crawling up his throat. "Why do you keep saying it was bad?"

Bela huffs, and she looks at him with a mix of exasperation and pity. "Because Dean came and told me himself," she says. "Earlier this morning."

And she runs a hand through her tousled, messy hair

and crunches into a yellow apple.

Identical to the one Dean gave him.

It all makes sense, and Castiel feels as though he going to be violently ill.

"You shouldn't take it personally," she says, swallowing her bite. "Trust me, when you've slept with as many people as Dean or I have, the bar is set very high, and it takes someone really spectacular in bed to even get you to remember their name…" She trails off when she looks at Castiel again, and she slowly sets down her apple. "Oh, gods. You didn't know."

Castiel stands up, his face burning with shame. "I'm going to go now."

"I'm so sorry," she rushes to say, a sheen of guilt in her eyes. "Your first time, of course you didn't know any better, you couldn't know how he felt, I didn't even think, I just assumed Dean would have talked to you–"

"Goodbye," Castiel cuts her off abruptly, and he leaves the room before he can embarrass himself any further and yanks the door shut behind him.

Bela stands alone, the slam of the door ringing through the empty room.

She smiles wide, and takes a big bite of her apple.

…

Hungover sailors pile wearily into the dining hall for brunch, shadows under their eyes and heads in their hands. They shuffle to their chairs and start dishing up food that is (despite being set out on the table some hours before their arrival) steaming hot and fragrant. The scents alone are too much for some of the nauseated pirates, who rush out of the room groaning.

"At least when we were wolves, we never got hung over," Zeddmore complains.

"Well, we never got drunk, either," Barnes retorts.

"I'm sorry about what I said about your mother last night," Ash tells Hendrickson apologetically. "I'm sure she's a classy lady."

"I'm sorry about what I said about your face," Henrickson offers. "It was uncalled for."

Jo trudges in with stringy hair and a weary slouch, and sits down next to Ash.

"Where were you last night?" Ash asks. "You missed all the good stuff."

"I was on the roof," she answers shortly, piling biscuits onto her plate.

"There was a giant brawl in the courtyard," Henrickson adds. "And then the most bizarre thing happened: we had a big heart-to-heart and talked about our childhoods."

"Yeah, that was weird," Ash remarks. "I did _not_ know so many of us had absent fathers."

"And then we held a eulogy for Jake," Henrickson continues, "and talked about what he had meant to all of us."

"Captain Dean was goddamn moving," Ash says. "I will freely admit it, I cried like a baby in a bathtub. And the man himself was so choked up he had to leave and we didn't see him for the rest of the night."

"I don't know where Sam was," Henrickson says. "He's an eloquent man. He would have killed last night."

"I thought I saw him go off with Bela," Barnes cuts in.

"Whoa," Zeddmore says. "You think they were, like, _doin' it_?"

"He was with me."

They all look at Jo.

"We were drinking on the roof together," she explains.

"Did you, uh, get in any other nocturnal activities?" Ash asks, elbowing her playfully.

Jo snorts. "Me and Sam? That'll be the day. That's as likely as me and a sea lion."

The others are unconvinced. "I've seen the way you guys look at each other," Henrickson says with a smirk. "I think there's somethin' there."

She shakes her head and insists, "You're all crazy," but the guys continue to make teasing suggestive noises at her until she throws a piece of bacon at Barnes and he catches it in his mouth. The table erupts in a new excited round of teasing about his wolfish tendencies and the amount of fur on his body.

While the attention is shifted for a moment, Ash says quietly to Jo, "You know, if you're worried about you bein'… a pirate, and all, and not a proper lady-type… Sam wouldn't care about that. He's a real good man, and he'd be good to you."

Jo swallows the lump in her throat and smiles quickly. "I know, Ash," she says.

"No pressure, I'm just sayin'." Ash spears a piece of pineapple on his fork. "And if you turn him down 'cause Bela's more your speed, that's fine too, just as long as you let us watch."

Jo shoves him and steals his bacon. "Shut up!"

"I'm serious," Ash says, grinning. "We talked about it last night. There's a betting pool started and I'd be willin' to cut you in on the profits –"

"I have a knife and I'm not afraid to use it!" Jo proclaims around her mouthful of bacon.

When Dean and Sam enter the hall, they are met with rowdy cheers. Andy Gallagher stands up and announces, "Ladies and gentlemen, the Orator Extraordinaire, Captain Dean Winchester!" Catcalls echo off the ceiling.

Dean grins and bows, then he and Sam go to sit with Jo and the others near the head of the table. "Where were you guys two hours ago?" Dean asks. "I came in here and the place was empty."

"We were sleepin' it off," Ash replies. "I'm guessin' you got plenty of sleep though, the way you hustled off to bed."

"You guess correctly," Dean agrees. He glances around at the table. "Where's Cas?"

They all look around and shrug. "Probably still asleep," Henrickson says. "He was pretty hammered."

"You know, you talk about him differently than you used to," Ash notes.

Dean blinks. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, before, you'd be like…" Ash makes an exaggeratedly grumpy face and growls in a mock-deep voice, "_Where's that motherfucker?_' But now you're all like…" He smiles and fans his hands cutely around his face, and chirps brightly, "Where _is_ that motherfucker?"

Sam laughs. "He's got you down to a T, Dean."

Dean stares at Ash perturbedly for a minute, then reaches to grab some biscuits from a nearby bowl. "Well, I guess he's proved himself," he says grudgingly. "Him saving my life on that island, and everything. Kinda hard to dislike a guy after that."

Then Cas walks in.

It's amazing to see the way the crew treats him now. They wave hello and pat him on the back as he passes by, make a few joking comments about his singing voice and so on. One night of carousing and he's one of the guys, part of the team, just a regular Joe wearing the same second-hand clothes as they are.

If they only knew how alien he really was.

And okay, it's hardly Dean's fault if the sight of him makes him kind of want to pass out. Because on the one hand, all it takes is one slip-up from Cas, one mistaken admission to the crew and his life is over, completely over, so _that's_ terrifying; on the other hand, every inch of him is a reminder of what they did last night and the unwavering boundaries Dean has crossed, which is terrifying in an entirely different, exciting and forbidden kind of way. And on a third completely separate hand, the sheer knowledge that the idiot he's been secretly lusting after for weeks is _lusting back_ just makes his heart race and his mouth dry and right now want all he really wants is to excuse the two of them from the table and drag him back to his bedroom and ravage him mercilessly.

Castiel's blue eyes meet Dean's, and for a second Dean sees the exact same dark thought reflected back at him and he almost chokes on his food. _Goddamn_.

But then Cas's eyes flash, and he looks away, and he sits stiffly next to Henrickson, across from Dean.

"You're looking surprisingly well," Ash says. "I mean, you really tied one on last night but you look _fresh_."

"Thank you," Cas says in his gravelly, measured voice. "I credit Bela's ministrations."

Sam spits out his pancake.

Dean stares.

Henrickson does a double take.

"Wait, you were with Bela?" Ash asks incredulously. "When?"

"This past hour. She was intent on seducing me," Cas comments, scooping peach slices onto his plate. "And I certainly wasn't one to argue."

It sounds so typically Bela that Dean's throat starts tightening. Even thought it can't be true, it _can't_ be. He wouldn't. Would he?

_She_ certainly would.

"You slept with Bela?" Jo asks, still disbelieving. "You?"

"Yes." Cas cuts his peaches with a knife and fork. "I was as surprised as you are."

"How was it?" Henrickson asks eagerly. "Is she a wildcat in the sack?"

Dean thinks something in his brain might be broken. Is this some kind of cover? But it doesn't make any sense. Why would he say he was with her this morning unless –

"She's extremely talented," Cas says dryly, "and very fond of burgundy décor."

And that's when something snaps inside Dean with what has to be an audible crack, because it's so mundanely true that it couldn't be a lie. And while his brain is cycling furiously through tired mantras of _what did you think what did you expect you should have known who were you kidding just last night just_ one_ night no big deal he can do what he wants you're one to talk no place to judge it's just sex it's just sex it's just sex IT'S JUST SEX_, something inside his chest is melting and dribbling down cold into his gut and puddling there. Before he realizes what he's doing he stammers, "But I thought – but I thought –"

And Cas looks him squarely in the eye and asks, "You thought what, Dean?"

Everyone waits for him to answer. Sam watches him closely.

The cold puddle in his gut sinks deeper. "Nothing," he finishes lamely. "I just can't believe it."

Cas looks down at his plate and his eyes stay there for awhile. Almost no one notices that Dean is a little more quiet throughout the rest of breakfast, and the few that do don't blame him; after all, everyone secretly knows about Dean and Bela, and it was really in poor taste for Cas to sleep with the captain's girl.

...


	17. Chapter 17

A/N:_ My extremely excellent exotic egrets! Thank you for all of your wonderful reviews. I have many many thoughts, so allow me to organize myself in an alphabetical fashion. Feel free to skip ahead if you do not care about my dumb thoughts._

_A) Sometimes, as an author, I come up with a plot idea that will upset my readers greatly and it makes me cackle with sinister joy. "Yeeesss," I gloat to myself in a dark room, stroking a white cat, "they are sooooo unprepared for the aaaagony I shall put them through." I have felt this way through most of the Bela plotline. It was so fun to watch you guys warm up to her and start to like her, and then BAM: a deluge of comments of "SALT AND BURN THAT DEMON BITCH OMFG BELA IS A LIFE RUINER SHE RUINS LIVES." I cackled madly. Alll according to plaaaaaaaaan. _

_B) With this update, this is officially the longest fanfic I've ever written! In fact, it's only a few thousand words away from being the longest story I've ever written, bar none. So... thanks for not being sick of me yet?_

_C) This chapter is extra super long! Over four thousand words, twice as long as a normal chapter! I considered breaking it up but then I realized that all you dedicated reviewers deserved as much fic as your little eyes can handle. Hooray for you! YOU GO GIRLS. AND POSSIBLY BOYS. ARE THERE ANY BOYS READING THIS?_

_D) I just watched the baby episode of season six again yesterday. My ovaries are completely shot. I discussed with my friend at great length how filming that ep was probably what prompted Gen to bug Jared for a baby, and if I was Danneel I'd be staring at Jensen creepily every time he held the baby and I'd whisper, "Doesn't it feel _natural_?" And then today I saw on Tumblr that Misha's having another baby and I was like "NOOOOOOOOO MY OVARIES THEY ARE COMPLETELY BROKEN NOW". _

_E) Your reward for reviewing this chapter is that I will fashion you a macaroni art in the shape of Jensen's future baby. BABY BABY BABY_

_F) Enjoy!_

* * *

Castiel doesn't see much of Dean after that brunch. He feels this is for the best. Everyone is busy preparing for the journey to the edge of the world, which according to Bela is only a few days' distance away.

He doesn't know why he thought it would be a good idea to succumb to his fleeting human urges with Dean. He should have been stronger. He should have let Dean walk away. He should have known he would fall short. It will make Castiel's role easier when the time comes if Dean despises him, but it will make the journey more difficult.

For Castiel, anyway.

In the meantime, every glimpse of Dean is a searing flare of humiliation. Castiel has never felt such shame. Perhaps it is another human instinct, a social cue powered by biological reactions; he struggles to hide it, but he cannot meet Dean's eyes.

It's just as well. Dean's eyes started all the trouble in the first place. They never looked like a murderer's eyes.

Castiel avoids Dean and camouflages himself amongst the crew, blending in to the endless noise of the excitable crowd and the dull colors of their borrowed clothes.

….

"So," Jo starts, hefting a crate of hardtack, "the land of the dead."

"I know," Sam says, shuffling a coil of rope over his shoulder. "I'm nervous."

Henrickson grunts and picks up a stack of wood. "Nervous?" he asks. "I was _nervous_ when I started turning into a pig. The sensation I'm feeling right now might more accurately be described as 'fucking terrified.'"

"You're all a buncha pansies," Ash declares, rolling a barrel of pickled vegetables. "My godmother was a Creole voodoo priestess in Martinique. I been speakin' to the dead in French since I was two years old."

They dump their goods into the dingy and let the others row it back to the Impala, heading back to the pile where Bela's servants have brought carts full of supplies for the expedition.

"Oh yeah?" Sam challenges. "Then what do the dead talk about, Ash? Enlighten us."

"Well, if they're French," Hendrickson quips, "probably the pope."

"And prostitutes," Andy adds.

"Naw. They ask what any of us would ask," Ash says.

They all look at him, waiting for the answer.

He half-smiles, an eerie gleam in his eyes. "How to get back alive."

The other four collectively shiver, in spite of the merciless sun shining down on the beach.

"I wonder what it'll look like," Jo says. "I mean, it's not heaven or hell, right? It's just… the underworld."

"It is the edge of the living world."

They turn and see Castiel standing there, stripped to the waist with a dried leg of some animal hoisted over his shoulder.

"They say the land is much like its inhabitants," he continues. "Quiet, cold, and still."

Sam wants to ask Castiel if he's been there personally, but not in front of the others, who still believe the fruit story. Instead he asks, "Where'd you hear that?"

The corner of Castiel's mouth turns up, and he replies, "I have it on good authority."

Sam has his answer.

Ash and Hendrickson shudder quietly and grab more supplies, carrying them down the beach. "Cripes," Jo mutters, struggling with a heavy chest, "I'm never gonna get to sleep tonight."

Sam lifts the other end of the chest and smirks, and in a low voice only she can hear, he says, "Good."

Jo flushes and shoves the chest so he staggers backward. "Watch your footing," she shoots back. "Wouldn't want you to fall off the roof."

Sam grins and knows where he'll be tonight.

…**..**

**Later that evening, in the library**

Dean and Bela meet in the dusty library, the walls stacked high with books and drawers bursting with age-worn maps. The smell of cedar permeates the room, wafting over the polished tables and wooden chairs upholstered with leather and brass. Twilight trickles in from high windows, and soon the lamps will be necessary to read the carefully inscribed warnings on the margins of the yellowing atlas laid out before them.

Bela outlines her errand for Dean: they are to travel to the land of the dead and summon the spirit of the Pamela the Seer. They will read her the message Bela has written, record her reply, and bring it back to Bela.

"When you return," Bela tells him, "I will chart you a course back to England."

"You actually know that?" Dean demands. "You can get us to England?"

"I can't _get _you there," she says dismissively. "There will be obstacles and you'll likely all die. But I can draw you a map, if you're stupid enough to try anyway."

Dean snorts. "Call me an optimist, I guess."

Then she slides a hand to his waist and smiles coyly. "Well, now that our business is settled, shall we turn to pleasure?"

Dean shoots back a tight, sarcastic smile. "You oughta keep that hand to yourself unless you want to lose it."

Bela slowly pulls it back, her smile fading into something more guarded. "Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, evidently."

"No, I was fine when I woke up," Dean assures her. "In fact, I was great. But then somehow, the person I woke up with woke up with _you_."

She gazes back at him innocently and says, "I've no idea what you're talking about."

"You know _exactly_ what I'm talking about!" Dean snaps. "You know every single damn thing that goes on in this house, so you can cut the bullshit ignorance routine." He takes a deep breath and forces himself to say out loud, "You knew I – you knew I slept with Cas, and you – you _took _him, and –" He cuts himself off with a noise of frustration and paces angrily away from her, clenching his fists.

"Oh, I see," Bela replies in a thoughtful tone, putting a finger to her chin. "So, you sleep with me and then Castiel in the same day and that's alright, but Castiel sleeps with you and then me and now I'm a horrible succubus purposefully destroying your life."

"You _seduced_ him!" Dean exclaims. "On purpose, knowing it would bother me, just to – to get back at me, or something…"

"Dean." She gives him a patronizing look. "Get back at you for what?"

Dean racks his brain. "For, for sleeping with Cas. For coming to your island. For – I don't know, anything!"

"Okay. Here's the unpleasant truth, even though you don't want to hear it." Bela slides herself up onto one of the tables and crosses her legs. "I didn't seduce Castiel; he came to me. I didn't sleep with him for revenge; I did it because I wanted to. And I certainly don't hold any of your exploits against you because…" She shrugs. "I simply don't care. And I'm honestly surprised that _you_ do."

"That's a load of crap," Dean says. "You knew. You had to know."

Bela leans forward, and there's something in her face – something sort of like morbid curiosity, maybe, or lurid fascination. "Dean, is there… is there something more going on with this little obsession of yours?"

Dean frowns and eyeballs her. "What are you talking about?"

"I thought it was just a potent mix of physical attraction and sexual repression." She tosses her hair. "That you'd get your rocks off and be done. But now you're getting so possessive, like he's your personal property…"

"That's not what I said," he objects.

"It's like you've got a schoolboy crush," she continues, leaning closer, a smile curling at the corner of her mouth, "and the little girl you gave your valentine to just threw it away…"

"Shut up," Dean growls, and he steps into her personal space, so close he can smell the vanilla in her hair.

She smiles wider. "Did you actually get _attached_ to the creature sent to kill you?" She laughs. "The same man you asked me to drug because he constantly lies to you, and you're getting upset because he betrayed your trust?"

"I said _shut up_!" Dean grabs her by the shoulders and barely holds back from shaking her, crimson anger pumping through him.

"Make me," Bela hisses, glittering eyes and sharp teeth. "Or aren't you man enough?"

Before he realizes what he's doing, Dean finds himself locking her in a punishing kiss, biting and grinding and groping. She deals back just as fiercely, daring him on with accusations of cowardice twisting unspoken in her mouth, in her panting glare, in her bruising grasp.

In a breath he's yanking up her dress and shoving her on top of the table, angry and frustrated and savage, and it's not until she moans and drags her fingernails painfully down his back that he realizes –

It's exactly what she wanted.

"You bitch," he gasps, shoving her away. "For this? You did it for _this_?"

She laughs breathlessly, a barely audible sound, her shoulders shaking. "Dean," she sighs, "you're so beautifully predictable, I had to."

He pushes off the table and straightens his clothes. "You're a fucking bitch." He strides away from her as fast as he can, barely keeping himself from running.

"Dean, come back," she calls, grinning. "I was just about to validate your masculinity."

Dean flips her off and storms out the library doors.

….

**Meanwhile, on the roof**

Jo clambers up the windowsill and spots Sam. "Hey, give me a hand."

He pulls her up with stronger tug than he intended and she tumbles into him a little; she turns this to her advantage and pins his shoulders to the roof, grinning down at him, saying, "You let little blonde girls get the jump on you often?"

Sam smirks back. "Only out of pity."

Jo scowls fiercely and presses her knee to Sam's stomach. "You take that back."

"Make me," Sam dares.

Jo gazes down at him for a long uncertain second, and her grip on his shoulders shifts, and she tucks back her hair behind her ear, and for a moment Sam can't exactly breathe because he's both hopeful and afraid that she's about to take him up on that dare.

But then she narrows her eyes and says, "You shouldn't say shit like that when my knee is so conveniently close to your family jewels."

So Sam pushes her off with a yelp and staggers to get up. He begins to run across the rooftop, but Jo chases after and grabs him and drags him back down, laughing, yanking his arm, and they end up sitting next to each other and looking out on the miles of forest and the sea beyond.

"We're on the roof again," Sam says. "Is this like, our secret hideout now?"

Jo crosses her legs underneath her. "I like it because it's private but it's not, you know." She clears her throat. "A bedroom."

Sam feels his face heat up, and he's thankful for the darkness. "Is that a concern for you?"

"Well." She shrugs. "It's not a concern exactly, more of a… precaution." She looks at him and smiles. "Besides, you have a reputation to uphold. You _are _the ship's doctor. We wouldn't want the crew to think you're consorting with a loose woman."

Sam snorts. "Right. Because half of them don't try to hire prostitutes for me every time we make port."

Jo laughs, and the space between them feels more comfortable, more relaxed. She digs into her pocket and pulls out a set of playing cards. They play for awhile, bantering back and forth, until the cloudy purple sky is a warm starless black, the hazy gray moon shining through.

"So last night," Jo finally says. "That whole truth thing was kind of fun."

"Yeah," Sam agrees, "in a nerve-wracking kind of way."

Jo sets down her hand of cards. "I had an idea."

Sam sets down his.

"I was thinking…" She chews her lip nervously. "Maybe we could each ask the other one thing, and the other person has to answer completely truthfully."

"Okay." Sam scoots closer and scoops up the cards, beginning to shuffle them. "You go first."

Jo clasps her hands together and cracks her knuckles, a thoughtful frown on her face. "Hmm. Let's see…" She pauses, and then looks carefully at Sam. "What are you most afraid of?"

Sam is surprised by the strength of his instinct to give a flippant answer. It's a question he wants to brush off with an easy joke, a question that urges him not to dig any deeper. But instead, he forces himself to reply with complete honesty.

"What I'm most afraid of…" He shuffles the cards slowly. "It varies from day to day. There are the usual things I'm always worried about: how we're getting out of here, losing the people I'm close to… The first day we arrived on this island, I was really afraid that Dean was going to die. I was terrified Bela would trap us and he and Castiel would die on the beach before we could get back. But right now…" He swallows, and hands Jo the cards. "I guess I'm most afraid of the place we're about to go. The land of the dead."

Jo takes the cards and slides them back into her pocket, glancing back at Sam. "You're afraid to see the dead people?"

Sam runs his hand through his hair and sighs, and his chest draws tight. "No, just one person in particular."

Jo waits for him to explain, her face open and unwary.

"I'm afraid Jess will be there," Sam admits softly. "And that she'll ask me… why I couldn't save her."

Jo hesitates to speak. "Your wife?" she whispers.

Sam nods. "She died of scarlet fever."

Jo puts her hand on his arm.

They sit in silence for a moment. Then Sam smiles quietly. "Okay, my turn."

Jo groans and buries her face in his shoulder. "Now I'm gonna get it."

Sam chuckles and pats her knee. "You asked for it, kiddo."

She sits up straight and takes a deep breath, putting on an attentive face. "Alright. I'm ready. Hit me with your best shot."

Sam gazes at Jo, studying her, trying to come up with the question she least wants to answer. Her blonde hair is loose and curls gently at the ends, almost touching her shoulders, and though he can barely see her face in the darkness her eyes shine out at him.

"What I want to know is…" Sam hesitates. "What exactly happened between you and Dean?"

Jo narrows her eyes. "I thought you didn't care about that," she accuses.

"I don't," Sam says. "But I'm curious, about… if you had feelings for him, or if it was just… a fling."

Jo takes another deep breath, and she looks at her hands as she speaks. "Okay. Then I'll tell the complete truth."

Sam waits for her to continue, and his heart beats a little harder in his chest.

Jo presses her lips together. She fiddles with her fingernails. "Dean and I slept together twice. The first time was the same week your father died. The second time was the night he killed Yellow Eyes."

Sam wants to know more, but he doesn't say anything.

After a beat, she speaks again. "It wasn't… It wasn't like some torrid forbidden love affair, you know? I was the cabin boy. I brought him his meals, his messages, I made sure his cabin lamps had oil at night. I saw a side of him most everybody else never saw; I saw him when he was tired and worn down and broken. And he knew a side of me that I kept secret from everyone. We understood each other." She picks at a loose thread in her pants and shrugs. "So. There were those two nights, when Dean needed someone. And I was there."

"So was I," Sam says, a tinge of bitterness in his mouth.

Jo looks up in surprise and laughs in shock. "What, you wish Dean would've had sex with you instead of me? I've really been barking up the wrong tree, then."

"No, I mean –" Sam runs a hand through his hair and exhales heavily. "When my dad died, I tried for _weeks_ to get Dean to talk about it. Every time he shut me down. We killed Yellow Eyes _together_ and I still had no idea if he felt as lost and empty as I did afterward. He said he didn't want to dwell on it. I pushed and pushed and he wouldn't say a thing. And now you tell me that he just needed someone – what about me?"

"Everybody's different," Jo says gently. "Sometimes, there aren't words for all the feelings wrapped up inside of you. I think Dean doesn't know how talk about those kinds of big feelings. I think he uses – he uses physical intimacy as a way to let people in. A way to feel whole again when he feels torn apart."

"But I'm his _brother_," Sam pleads, unsure of why he's getting so worked up. "He should've been able talk about it to me. I would understand. I was _there_, he was my dad too and Yellow Eyes killed _our_ mother and –" He cuts himself off, pressing a hand to his mouth.

Jo slides her hand on his arm, soft and reassuring. "Do you ever think that maybe…" She squeezes his arm. "Maybe you weren't really so desperate to get Dean to talk. Maybe you just desperate for somebody to listen."

It's so obvious.

It's so clear and obvious now that she's said it: all that time he spent frustrated that Dean shut him out, he was frustrated because Dean was the only person who could possibly understand and he was shutting Sam out, shutting him up, forcing him to keep all the venom and loss inside and all Sam wanted was to vomit out the poison but there was no one, no one he could tell.

It's a strange relief to understand now why it hurt so badly back then.

"If you want to talk about it now," Jo says, "I'll listen."

"No," Sam says, "that's okay. It was a long time ago."

They sit in the dark and look up at the big gray moon.

"You know my dad, he never liked England," Sam says. "He'd say we're idiots for trying to get back there. Dean and I were born in South Carolina, and he always wanted to retire there someday."

Jo smiles. "Sounds like a smart man. I only ever met him once or twice. Scared me shitless, though."

Sam chuckles. "He had that effect. He did it on purpose. That giant black beard of his, and all the shit he'd pull to seem intimidating… You probably heard about this, but he'd light fuses and stick them under his hat so it looked like his head was on fire."

"I did hear about that. I met quite a few folk who thought he was possessed by the devil."

"Yeah, Dean and I had a similar theory for a good portion of our childhoods. Growing up on a pirate ship where the captain is your father is kind of like growing up in hell."

"What, did he threaten to give you forty lashes?"

"Lashes? He threatened to keel-haul us and maroon us in the Arctic."

"I'm guessing he didn't follow through."

"When I told him I was leaving for Oxford, I think he was tempted. He had that keel-hauling look in his eyes…"

…

Dean stops in front of Castiel's door, his hand raised to knock. Briefly he flips a mental coin. Heads, he's here. Tail's, he's somewhere else. He knocks.

Heads.

"Dean," Cas says. "What is it?"

"Hello to you too," Dean retorts. "Can I come in?"

Cas steps back from the door and lets Dean in with – if Dean is reading him correctly – a slightly grudging attitude. He closes the door behind Dean and goes to sit in the armchair by the fireplace.

"Look," Dean says, "I just wanted start by saying that I don't care that you slept with Bela."

Cas's eyes flicker to Dean's in surprise.

"You probably didn't realize it, but I was getting my panties all in a twist after brunch," Dean explains. "I had all this stupid preconceived crap in my head, and I let myself get wrapped up in – but anyways, that's not important." He clears his throat and shifts his weight, trying to keep from overthinking this. "The point is, you had every right to have sex with whomever you want. I guess I wish it hadn't been quite so _quickly_ after you and I hooked up, but there you go."

Cas's eyes dart away from Dean and back toward the fireplace. "I didn't sleep with Bela."

Wait, what?

"If you didn't sleep with her," Dean says slowly, "why would you say that you did?"

"I was… uspet with you." Cas's cheeks pinken, and his adam's apple bobs. "I wanted to make you mad."

Dean's pulse quickens and he asks, "Why were you upset with me?"

Castiel stands up, and he draws himself up to his full height, almost eye-to-eye with Dean. "Bela told me what you said. About me."

Dean exhales through his nose and glares at Cas. "Okay, you are gonna have to give me more than that, because I have no fucking idea what you're talking about."

"She said… that you told her…" Cas seems to struggle with the words. "That you did not. Enjoy our encounter."

This.

This makes little to no sense.

Dean squints at Cas. "_What?_"

"She told me that you came to her this morning, and complained." Cas flushes a deep red. "I felt I had been been made a fool."

"Lemme get this straight: you actually believed her?" Dean demands.

Cas blinks.

"Oh my _God_," Dean practically shouts. "You still believe her!"

Cas frowns. "You're saying she lied?"

"Of course she lied!" Dean reinforces his statements with emphatic hand gestures. "That's what she _does!_ She's a liar! She cannot be trusted!"

"It was the _way_ she said it," Castiel insists. "And she knew things, and she had the same apples –"

"Oh, I don't even care if she's a woman, I'm gonna punch her in the face," Dean growls. "And you. _You _should've known better. You honestly thought I was tricking you, or something? I was under a goddamn truth potion!"

Cas flushes again and mumbles, "Well, you never actually. Said_._ That you. Um."

The blood rushes to Dean's cheeks. "Oh."

Cas flushes even more and looks at his shoes.

"Well." Dean clears his throat. "I think if I didn't like it, I wouldn't be here apologizing, would I?"

"It's unlikely," Cas admits.

They stand there awkwardly, swaths of uncomfortable silence hanging in the room like goddamn party streamers.

"You know, we really aren't the kind of people who should be fucking," Dean says. "We barely trust each other not to knife each other in the back."

Cas nods. "We are not on good terms."

"I mean, I trust you so little I had you _drugged_," Dean reminds him. "And then the second it wore off you were lying again, about sleeping with Bela. Jesus, is that just your default setting or something? When in doubt, lie?"

Cas's nostrils flare. "It's not a setting. It's my job."

"And then there's _that,_" Dean rejoins exasperatedly. "You're a spy, and I'm the guy you're supposed to be spying on."

"And you're the captain," Cas says, "and you'll be strung up by your own men if they find out."

"And I just found out that you're not even actually human." Dean runs a hand through his hair. "Holy crap. Sex was the shittiest idea. Whose idea was this? It was yours, wasn't it?"

"I distinctly remember it being your idea," Cas corrects him, stepping closer. "You started it all with your confession. I hadn't even put a name to it yet."

"No no no, _you_ kissed _me,_" Dean accuses. "I ran away. And you followed me."

Cas frowns. "I only followed because your reasons for stopping were asinine. We've come up with legitimate reasons tonight, so I feel no qualms."

"My reasons were not 'asinine,'" Dean argues, "and if you're so fucking qualm-less, why are you still here?"

"This is my room." And Cas smirks.

"Oh, don't you _smirk_ at me!" Dean exclaims. "I hate it when you do that."

Cas does a very poor job of concealing his smirk. His mouth is all twisted up and still turned up at the corner.

Dean makes a noise of exasperation and rolls his eyes. "Here, just let me –" And he takes Cas by the face and kisses that fucking smirk right off his face.

Before either of them can gather enough sense to stop, Cas is pushing Dean against the wall, kissing him hot and eager and desperate, their bodies acting of their own accord and rutting together wantonly. Dean groans and fumbles frantically at the buttons on Cas's pants, and Cas mouths along his neck and Dean can't exactly breathe and he's having a _hell_ of a time with these buttons.

"Do you think – this is a good idea?" Cas pants, groping Dean's ass in a blatant attempt to cause Dean to asphyxiate.

"Course not," Dean answers breathlessly. He yanks off his shirt and drags Cas toward the bed. "But I don't see you comin' up with a better one."

Cas kisses him again and Christ the way he moves, Dean can't exactly handle it, and he grinds harder against him and Cas's moan hums into his mouth and Dean can't wait, he can't, so he slides his hand in Cas's pants. And just the way Cas _gasps_, the way he clutches the bedsheets underneath him and his blue eyes go dark and wide, oh Dean is nearly there just from the sight of it, the sound of it, the hot aching feel of it.

"Dean," Cas gasps. "Dean, I – ohhh, Dean."

Dean fumbles one-handed with his own pants, and starts to say, "Just so we're clear –"

But then Cas yanks open Dean's pants with little regard for the unfortunate buttons, and he flips them over on the bed and rubs hungrily against him and groans, and for an agonizingly long heated moment it's all Dean can do not to lose it right there.

But when he finds the power of speech again, he manages to say, "This is good, so good, so fucking good."


	18. Chapter 18

A/N: _My outstanding, ornery owlets! I am SO, SO SORRY for the delay in getting this chapter to you! You all gave me such beautiful reviews and you certainly didn't deserve to wait extra days before getting your update. I just had a lot of unexpected things come up and I wasn't able to keep on top of my writing! So my deepest, deepest apologies. _

_Then, to add insult to injury, this chapter is relatively short! THE OUTRAGE YOU MUST FEEL. The good news is, my siblings have gone to camp for the week, so your next update should come fairly quickly! I'm trying so hard to stay regular with this, you guys. I want you to be able to enjoy the story at a reasonable pace, you know? I'm also shooting to finish this thing before August, which may or may not be insane. _

_Anyways, enjoy the chapter and please review. Your reward this chapter is: your very own DEAN NECKLACE, AKA THE AMULET THINGY SAM GAVE HIM WHEN THEY WERE KIDS AND HE WORE UNTIL SEASON FIVE, AKA THE _SAMULET (TM)_. Dean didn't really throw it away, he just gave it to you! While its god-detecting abilities are dubious at best, the _Samulet (TM)_ will ensure that you're the most stylin' hunter on the block. Review and order now!_

_And now on with the show._

* * *

Dean wakes up in a green sunlit meadow full of fat, grazing cows.

He groans and rubs his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. "You gotta be kidding me."

The cow nearest to him blinks its brown limpid eyes. It lows at him.

"Long time no see!" Zeus greets him, his hand tucked nervously into his pockets. "You have no idea how relieved I am that you've still got opposable thumbs."

"Yeah, your little messenger boy, what's his name –" Dean snaps his fingers to jog his memory. "Hermes. Yeah. He helped Sammy out. Gave her the one-up on Bela. Now leave me alone and let me wake up."

"Just hold your horses," Zeus says, his gray eyes round with worry. "Hera heard that she's sending you guys to the edge of the world."

Dean gets up and brushes the back of his legs off, squinting at Zeus. "That your wife?"

Zeus pulls a face and mutters, "Yes. My wonderful wife."

Dean chuckles and shakes his head. "Buddy. Why don't you just leave her?"

"You can't just _leave_ Hera," Zeus insists. He glances around anxiously and hisses, "Now shut up about it before she hears us! Do you _want_ me to be chained to a rock and skinned alive?"

Dean waves a hand of placation. "Alright, alright, simmer down. Let's get back on topic: yes, we're going to the land of the dead. No, you aren't invited, unless you can snap your fingers and get us back home."

Zeus scuffs his shoe against a tuft of crabgrass. "I don't… um. I don't actually have that kind of power."

Dean crosses his arms. "King of Olympus, and you don't have that kind of power."

"Neither do any of the other gods!" Zeus protests. "If you were asking me to move a, a, a, a _rock_ then sure, no problem, blammo! It's done! But people are different, we're not supposed to interfere like that, we're supposed to _guide_ you –" he makes a sliding gesture with both his hands – " _guide_ you to your destination, not pick you up and plop you down wherever we please!"

"Look, is there a reason you brought me here?" Dean demands. "Because I'm a little too busy for social calls right now."

"I'm here to warn you." Zeus grabs his arm. "You need to be careful. The summoned dead are thirsty, Dean."

Dean yanks his arm away, stumbling backward into a cow, who lows loudly in protest. "Thirsty for what?"

"For _life_." Zeus runs a hand through his hair. "When you summon them to the edge like that, they're so close to life they can taste it. They can't cross over, but you'll be in arm's reach. Your heart beating, blood coursing through your veins…" His adam's apple bobs. "How could you blame them for wanting a piece?"

And Dean is plunged into darkness.

He gasps in the dark, blinking as his eyes slowly adjust.

"Dean?" Cas's voice rumbles next to him, thick with sleep. Dean can feel him struggling to sit up. "What is it?"

"Nothing," Dean breathes. "Just a dream."

Cas sighs and sinks back into the bed. "I had dark dreams too," he mumbles. "I dreamt of a lone boat in a wide ocean…"

Dean falls asleep again to the low murmur of Cas's narration as he describes a relentless white sun that menaces a stranded dinghy, drifting from hour to hour on directionless fingerling waves across a barren, unending sea.

…

Bela serves a large, sumptuous sending-off breakfast, and the pirates eat heartily, knowing it could be a week and a half before they safely make port again. Ash mumbles to himself as he eats, bags under his eyes. He spent the entire night in Bela's library poring over her maps.

"And if the storm blew us due east," he mutters around a mouthful of eggs, "then there's a metaphysical portal somewhere between Barbados and St. Lucia…"

The others are busy eyeing the hickeys on Cas's neck and sneaking pitying glances at Dean. For him to be flaunting it like that, right in front of Dean… They're surprised Dean can be so calm. Sam notes the way Dean's eyes keep darting back darkly to Cas's neck, and the way he clenches his silverware with an iron grip.

The guy is covering it up good, but he's affected by it.

After breakfast they all thank Bela for her hospitality and head down to the beach, where they board the Impala and prepare to set sail. Dean makes an embarrassing display of hugging the mast and pledging his undying devotion to the ship, promising never to leave her again as long as he lives. The crew laughs and teases him until he gets out his trusty speech-crate again and stands on it, motioning for them to shut up and hollering "ALRIGHT, SHUT YOUR CAKEHOLES, CAPTAIN SPEAKING!"

They slowly reduce the chattering to a minimum. Cas's eyes are on him, silent and focused.

"Alright." Dean clears his throat. "Last time we were all standing here, there were a lot more of us."

The last voices dwindle down into somber quiet.

"We've lost friends. More than that, we've lost crewmates. And now we're going to the land of the dead, where perhaps their spirits have gone to rest. I don't know." Dean scratches his stubbly chin, where his beard is beginning to grow back. "So what I need is for you guys to keep a level head on you. We've been through things that…" He clears his throat again and chuckles dryly. "Let's just be honest, not a single person back home is gonna believe us."

Jo looks at Sam; Sam's eyes are on Dean.

"So keep a watchful eye out. Don't wander from your post. And most of all…" Dean flashes a cocky smile, the familiar spark back in his green eyes. "Get back to work, you miserable sons of bitches! You know what to do! Weigh anchor and hoist the sails!"

The crowd scatters with a series of shouts down the line, Ash acting as bosun in Jake's stead. The patchy sails of the Impala billow to life, and Dean takes her helm with a glorious grin splitting across his face, and her masts creak above him with a sound he's known all his life as that swift galloping plunge into freedom and he smiles, he smiles at that sweet music.

…

They sail onward, over the sparkling iridescent sea, through the deep blue twinkling night. The next morning a fog rolls in over the waves, blanketing the ship in wispy tendrils of mist; by midafternoon, the sky and the water are nearly indistinguishable, the same cloudy-gray expanse as the white haze around them. It is more difficult to navigate but they hold their course, crossing their fingers and hoping for the best.

The night is oppressive and black. Lamplight illuminates a foot into the fog and fades away. Ash takes the helm, and Dean returns to his cabin with a heavy heart.

He has no sooner stepped inside and unbuttoned his jacket when he hears a knock on the door. He opens the door. "Yeah?"

Jo smiles cautiously at him and presents him with a covered dish. "Brought you something from the galley. Thought you might be hungry."

Dean takes it, warm and weighty in his hands, and he realizes she's right. "Thanks, Jo. Come in."

She enters the room and immediately sets to work, checking the lamps and tidying up his things. "How has it gotten this messy?" she demands. "We've only been at sea for two days!"

Dean grins sheepishly and sits down at his table, tucking into the plate of chicken and potatoes. "Hey now, I've got better things to do with my time than clean. I'm the captain!"

She grumbles a little more and leaves with a dirty look, muttering something about sties and troughs.

A minute after she leaves he hears a knock again and he calls, "Just come in, for chrissakes, it's unlocked! You know I'm still eating."

Cas opens the door. "Are you expecting someone else?"

"Jesus, just –" Dean leaps up and ushers him inside, closing the door quietly behind him. "Hell, Cas, don't broadcast it to the whole crew that you're coming to my room."

Cas glances behind him to the food on his table. "I've interrupted your dinner." He turns to leave.

"No!" Dean grabs his arm. "Stay for a minute, c'mon."

Castiel gazes back at him, his eyes darker than usual, and Dean notices there are purple shadows underneath them.

"Hey," Dean says softly. "What's wrong?"

Wordlessly Cas leans into him and slides his arms around Dean. He rests his head on Dean's shoulder and Dean can feel the heaviness in his body as he exhales a noiseless sigh.

Dean isn't sure what to do, so he just puts his arms around Cas and holds him there. It's not bad, actually.

"I'm sorry," Cas says finally.

Dean pulls back a little so he can look at him. "For what?"

Cas puts his hand to Dean's neck, and his mouth tightens. "For everything you are about to face."

Dean stares back at him, his heart beating somewhere in the vicinity of his throat.

And then Cas kisses him, slow and soft and steady, and Dean lets himself fall into the kiss and close his eyes and stop thinking for just a couple goddamn minutes of his life, and it's just him and Cas and warm reassuring mouths and hands clasped to waists and fingers raking through hair.

Neither of them notices when the door swings open behind them.

Sam freezes, and creeps backward, closing the door silently behind him.

He stands outside Dean's cabin, wide-eyed.

He stands there.

He just stands.

"Hey, Sam!" Andy greets him, strolling by. "Say, do you think Dean is sleeping right now? Cuz Ash and I grabbed a couple'a lutes from Bela's place, and we were gonna have a little shindig on the weather deck, I thought maybe I'd invite him –"

"Dean. Sleeping," Sam forces out, trying to recollect how words work. "I'll be up in. A minute."

Andy peers at him. "You okay, man?"

"Fine!" Sam insists, nodding furiously. "Just fine!"

Andy shrugs it off and leaves Sam with a thumbs up, heading back up to the deck whistling jaunty tunes.

Sam stands outside Dean's cabin, and wonders –

what in the ever-living fuck is he supposed to do now?

Then the cry comes out from the crow's nest:

"Land ho!"


	19. Chapter 19

A/N:_ My krazy, kinky kookaburras. Thank you so much for all your reviews. I have rushed this chapter to you as fast as I possibly can, but I have some bad news: _

_I'm going to visit my sister for the weekend. It's a six hour drive each way. So, you next update will be, at the earliest - and I stress, AT THE EARLIEST - Monday night. More likely it will be sometime Tuesday. Of course, you can feel free to try and change my mind by reviewing like the dickens, but there's really only so much I can physically do. Believe me, if I was able to successfully sibling-bond and write homoerotic fanfiction at the same time, I could get _so much more done_ in my life. _

_Anyhow, here's your update, I hope you like it, and I actually did quite a bit of research for this bit. I've been legit reading the Odyssey this past week, and I skipped ahead to this section and lifted a small quote from it; it should be pretty easy to spot, but damn. I love how Homer puts things. If you haven't read it, or read some old shitty Victorian translation of it years ago for school, I HIGHLY recommend reading a modern translation. I can't emphasize enough how much I've bastardized the story for this fic, or how much of the fantastic characters of Telemachus and Athena I've excluded for the sake of brevity and more focus on man-sexing. GO READ IT. _

_Enjoy the chapter! _

* * *

The fog has parted.

Not lifted, simply parted like a curtain, revealing the dark silhouette of approaching land against an ashen sky. It's too early for it to be that light, and yet too dark to really see; a few sailors bearing lanterns press forward on the prow, bathed in orbs of yellow light and peering into the dim gray glow. A narrow jetty juts from the shore. It's a convenient mooring for the ship.

The water flows deep and black beneath them, calm and opaque and smooth as a shadow.

The air is still, but they glide ever closer.

"Right," Ash says. "I'm guessing this is the place."

Andy squints. "Guess we'll have to postpone the shindig, huh?"

Henrickson shrugs. "I don't see why we can't amuse ourselves while the captain sleeps." Then he shivers and rubs his arms. "Besides, a little music might make everybody feel a little less… spooked."

Meanwhile, Sam knocks on Dean's door. "Dean," he says. "Dean, we've arrived."

So by the time Dean has emerged from his cabin and put on his best captain's face, grabbing the lantern hung by his door, he reaches the weather deck just as a few uncertain hollow notes of a reed flute drift across the ship on the chill wind. Discordant plucked notes of the untuned lute prick at the back of his neck, and Dean steps to the railing and gazes out at the black mass of land, the lone jetty, the murky gray oppressive sky.

"_There's a lady who's sure/ all that glitters is gold/ and she's buying a stairway… to heaven…_"

Dean lifts the lantern hesitantly over the rail. The light glints off the black water but does not penetrate it; an obsidian mirror.

"_When she gets there she knows/ if the stores are all closed/ with a word she can get what she came for…_"

Dean feels an icy trickle down his back.

The land of the dead.

"_Ooo-ooo-ooo, ooo-oo-oo-ooo," _Ash sings. "_And she's buying a stairway to heaven._"

He pulls the lantern back and straightens up, remembering himself. "Enough!" he barks at the clump of pirates crowded around Andy and Ash. "Enough carousing, your captain is speaking! Sam, Cas, Ash, go get the sheep and the wine. The rest of you, keep watch."

"Hang on one mother-loving minute!" Barnes steps forward, determination on his narrow face.

Dean cocks an eye at him and glares. "Are you speaking back to your captain, Barnes?"

Barnes gulps, and then musters his courage. "The last time you told us to keep watch while you went exploring, you never came back. And then we – we were stranded in the ocean for two weeks until a giant tropical storm nearly killed us all! And then those of us that survived the storm landed on an island where we were _turned into wolves_." Barnes scowls as fiercely as he can. "So excuse me for being skeptical, but where exactly are you going and when will you be back?"

Sam chuckles.

Dean glowers at Sam, then turns his attention back to Barnes. "Alright," he capitulates. "You want transparency? Here's transparency." He crosses his arms and presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek, then shakes his head. "We're gonna go down to the edge there. We're gonna make a sacrifice. Some dead folks are gonna try to crash our party, and we're gonna hold them off until we get some face time with Pamela. We deliver our message, get her reply, and then haul ass out of there before they turn us into pirate-kabobs. Is that _cool with you_, Barnes?"

"And if you guys don't come back?" Jo asks, glancing at the others. "What then?"

"Then you sail back to Bela," Sam answers, a muscle in his jaw tightening. "And you demand she chart you the way home."

Jo looks up at him for a long moment, then nods.

So the crew moors the Impala to the jetty and they lower down the two sheep, both of which have no intention of following Ash. Sam grabs their ropes and drags them behind him while Ash brings up the rear and verbally berates them, hefting the jug of wine. Cas and Dean exchange a covert glance and then quickly look away; they take up their lanterns and lead the way for Sam and Ash, palming the hilts of their swords.

The jetty gives way to a rocky strip of beach, which is quickly overtaken by a sparse, foggy forest. They trudge through thick, sucking mud among blackened skeletal trees while bony branches tug at their clothing and snap at their cheeks, and the damp air presses to their skin in cold kisses. When they come to a suitable clearing, Dean stops.

"Here," he says. "This'll work."

He hangs his lantern on a nearby branch, and he pulls out his sword and uses it to dig a shallow trough. It's easy enough in the soft wet earth. He takes the jug of wine from Ash and uncorks it, pouring it into the trough. "Okay, Cas," he says. "Your turn."

Cas nods and brings the sheep forward – they are a ram and a ewe, just as Bela instructed. Cas, already familiar with the language, recites the archaic Greek vow Bela easily taught him and slits each of their throats, and their steaming blood splashes into the trench. Dean's pants are flecked with red speckles and he stumbles backward, surprising himself.

He is no stranger to blood. And yet, in this dark gray forest, the violent redness of it is startling.

Their faces flicker in the lanternlight as they stare at the trough.

"Is there anything else we need to do?" Sam asks.

Dean steps over the trench and brandishes his sword. "I invoke the nations of the dead," he declares; his voice rings clear through the forest. "We seek Pamela the Seer and wish to speak with her."

The shadows between the trees deepen and lengthen, fog darkening and curling. Out of the mist, faint gray figures slowly emerge, their outlines growing sharper as they draw nearer. It is the pale horde of the dead. Silently hundreds of them sift between the trees like sand between the fingers: men with battle-scarred bodies and women with lined faces, children of every size, feeble elderly hunched and hobbling. All journeying hungrily toward one goal: the blood.

Dean slashes his sword at them, the blade flashing. "Nobody drinks until we talk to Pamela!" he shouts.

The dead cringe back but never take their eyes off the blood.

Then one pale figure steps forward, emerging from the forest with a straight back and a high-raised chin. A woman, a woman with black ringlets and golden serpentine bracelets, a sheer white dress that shimmers as she walks and clings to her shapely body. She looks at Dean, and he sees that her eyes are pure blind white.

"Son of Blackbeard," she greets him, in a calm commanding voice, "Dean the Lucky, master of exploits, man of pain…" She smiles. "What now, what brings you here, forsaking the light of day to see this joyless kingdom of the dead?"

Cas steps forward unconsciously and puts a hand to the hilt of his bloodied sword. Ash puts a hand to Cas's arm and shakes his head.

"Are – are- are you Pamela the Seer?" Dean stammers.

"Stand back from the trench," she instructs. "Put up your sharp sword so I can drink the blood and tell you all the truth."

Dean cautiously lowers his sword and steps aside.

Pamela kneels down and crouches low to the trough, and dips her hand into the bloody wine. She drinks from her cupped hand, sucking thirstily, several handfuls until a slight pink tinge comes to her cheeks and her lips are stained dark. Then she sighs and wipes her hand on her dress, leaving a crimson streak. "Yeah, that's the good stuff," she mutters.

She stands back up and her face is brighter now, sharper. Her smile is less serene and more biting, a more bold-faced version of Bela's Cheshire grin. "Now I feel more like myself," she says cheerily, white eyes directed to Dean. "Sorry about all that poetic crap, it tends to take over when I go too long without a drink. The perks of being a prophetess, I guess." She flicks back her black ringlets and sashays closer, biting the inside of her lip coyly. "So what's a nice boy like you doin' in a place like this?"

"Bela sent me," Dean tells her. "She asked me to bring a message to you."

Pamela laughs heartily. "Oh, she _knew_ I wouldn't come if she called!" she exclaims. "So she sends you! She knows I can't resist a pretty face."

Dean balks, and Sam tries unsuccessfully to suppress a smile.

"Look, do you want the message or not?" Dean demands. He whips the letter out of the breast pocket of his jacket and breaks the seal, and he reads aloud the words written there. "She says, _You know my offer still stands. What is your answer?_"

Pamela's smile fades, and she grows serious, her face gentle but set. She is quiet for several seconds, and then she finally says, "My answer is no."

The hordes of dead behind her watch the trough of blood hungrily, silently.

"What did Bela tell you about me?" Pamela asks, sauntering closer to Dean. "Did she tell you I can see straight across time?"

Dean fixes her with a firm gaze. "She told me you were lovers."

Pamela freezes.

Cas, Sam, and Ash all whip their heads to Dean, shock painted on their faces.

Dean smirks. "That was you, wasn't it? The one person I actually believe she ever cared about."

Pamela huffs a laugh, and then waves her hand at the others. "Y'all can stop gaping like you're surprised," she says. "I know for a fact that at least one of you has placed money on the bet that she goes both ways."

Ash flushes red.

"And Bela and I had some good times, but it was never serious." Pamela's jaw juts out a little, and she chuckles. "She was too in love with somebody else."

"Who's that?" Dean asks."

Pamela smirks bitterly. "Herself."

Dean nods. "Yeah, I can see that."

"Now, Dean…" Pamela puts a hand to his elbow and trails her fingers down his arm, and he's startled by the coldness of her, the iciness of her touch even through his jacket. "Do you want to know your future, or not?"

Cas steps forward again, his nostrils flaring. "Do not touch him," he commands. "Step back."

Pamela grins at him. "It's okay, honey, you'll get your turn." Then she cocks her head innocently and asks, "Or maybe you're just jealous?"

Dean tries to pull an indignant expression, and Cas's face contorts with anger, the lines of his body stiffening straight. "You are of the dead," he growls. "You are no better than a leech."

Pamela's hand tightens on Dean's arm, and without turning her face from Castiel, she says in a low voice to Dean, "I'll tell you what I see. As long as you are with him, nothing but carnage and death lies ahead of you. Pain and misery and suffering and grief, and at the end you're alone and begging to die."

Cas's eyes shine. "No!" he shouts hoarsely, "that's not true!"

Ash and Sam step forward, glancing between the other three.

Pamela's icy hand clenches tighter. "Kill him," she says, a steely resolve in her voice, "and you will return home safely. You and all your crew."

"Because he – he betrays me?" Dean whispers.

Cas grinds his teeth and turns away, bright-eyed and wounded.

Pamela smiles gently. "No. But a different chain of events will unfold. He's a chess piece, Dean, a pawn. You make the wrong move, and the king will fall." She releases his arm and steps back. "Or sacrifice the pawn and take the board. It's your choice."

And Dean opens his mouth to reply something cutting and clever, and he glances into the dark –

He stops.

Something behind Pamela has snagged his eye and caught his voice in his throat, and he steps forward, all thought of cynicism scattering from his mind.

"Dean?" Sam asks. "What is it?"

A flutter of blonde hair, in the crowd of the listless dead. It caught his eye, and Dean can't look away. She lifts her face and his chest squeezes so tight he can barely breathe.

And in a creaking, cracking voice, he says out loud:

"Mom?"


	20. Chapter 20

A/N:_ My hungry hungry caterpillars! I'm sorry this chapter is so late and that life continues to get in my way. It was also a difficult chapter to write because... well, you'll see. Thank you so much to those of you who reviewed, because it was your words that gave me the push I needed to get through it. Also, I know sometimes the Odyssey-ing of it all gets in the way of sexytimes, but there ARE more sexytimes on the road ahead, I swear. _

_Just... not around the dead people, 'kay? _

_Also, I realized that between Bela and Jo there's a surprising amount of heterosexual romance/sex sneaking into this story, which I'm fine with if you're fine with. It really all comes down to Dean and Cas, though, and I try not to lose sight of that. Their relationship is the cornerstone of this story, as much as you may THINK it's the Odyssey. _

_Finally, your reward for reviewing this chapter is... that I will send you TWO HUNDRED MISHABUCKS in the mail! MISHABUCKS can be used to purchase MISHAS and MISHA ACCESSORIES. From funky sweaters to rhino meat, there's nothing you can't find at MISHAMART! GET YOUR MISHABUCKS TODAY.*_

_*MISHABUCKS are not valid as legal tender. MISHABUCKS are only redeemable at MISHATOPIA or your local MISHAMART. Void where prohibited._

_Now, on with the show!_

* * *

Sam doesn't remember what his mother looks like.

Oh sure, growing up Dean spent a lot of time describing her to Sam. When they were very little, whenever Dad led a raid he'd lock his two boys in his cabin and tell them not to open it for anyone who didn't know the secret knock; then cannonfire would rock the boat and Sam would whimper, and Dean would curl around him in the hammock and pull the blanket over their heads and whisper to Sammy about their mother, whisper how she was pretty and good and she was watchin' us two from heaven and watchin' Dad and her and Dad wouldn't let nothin' happen to 'em, ever.

Sam's earliest ideas of who Mom was were pretty confused and vague, of course. Sometimes he would dream about her and wake up happy; other times he would have nightmares about her dying, the mad cackling buccaneer Yellow Eyes laughing in his face. Over time he developed a picture of her in his mind – blonde, sweet, beautiful, warm, smiling, soft. An angel.

So what he sees right now –

A gray, frail slip of a woman, a stranger, staring blankly at the trough of blood

and Dean standing there, one arm reaching out to her, paralyzed with grief and hope, every line in his body pulled taut and focused on her, his eyes watering and mouth trembling –

It's so painful that Sam can't even speak.

"Mom," Dean says again, his voice cracking. "Mary, it's Dean. Your son."

"You have to let her drink," Pamela says. "Or she won't recognize you. That's how it works with any of these guys. You let them drink, and they'll tell you the truth. Just don't touch them unless you want to stick around here for a lot longer."

Dean jumps hastily back and gestures for the woman who is their mother to come forward. "Go right ahead, drink."

The pale, timid blonde woman crouches forward and bends down, and laps at the trough like a cat.

"I'll see you boys later," Pamela says, turning with a smile. "And if you're ever dead, don't be a stranger. Look me up."

"Will do," Ash answers eagerly.

She walks back into the crowd and disappears amongst them, a shadow among shadows. Meanwhile Mary stands up, a rosy glow livening her face, and she looks at Dean. She looks warmer now, she stands taller, stronger. A spark lights in her, and suddenly tears spring to her eyes. "Dean," she whispers. "Sweetie." And then she looks past him and meets Sam's eyes.

Sam's heart thuds painfully his chest. Of course she wouldn't recognize him.

She puts her trembling hand to her lips and cries, "And Sammy!"

The tears roll down his face hot and wet, and he says, "Hi, Mom."

It's so evident how every muscle in Dean's body is aching to get closer, but he stays rooted to the spot. "Is this what it's like for you, being dead?" he asks hoarsely. "Just gray fog and a bunch of corpses for company?"

She shakes her head and smiles tearily. "No, I'm not usually all the way out here. I live in a place that is… like a meadow. With your father."

"Dad's here?" Sam asks anxiously.

"He's not out here, at the edge." She's a beautiful woman, she really is, with her soft wavy hair and the lines around her kind eyes. "He didn't hear you calling. I heard, and I didn't know why, but I knew I had to come."

"So you don't…" Dean's adam's apple bobs. "You don't remember us, normally."

She presses both her hands to her face, and tears roll down her cheeks. "Not all the time," she admits. "It comes and goes. But I…" She squeezes her eyes shut and her shoulders quiver, and she sobs, "I try. I try to look after my boys."

Cas looks away, and Ash blinks as quick as he can to try and keep his eyes from welling up.

An anguished noise tears from Dean, wetness trickling down the corners of his eyes, and he yanks off his jacket and puts it around her shoulders. "I can't hug you," he tells her, "but maybe this'll help."

She nods and pulls the jacket around her but her shoulders shake all the harder.

"You can see us?" Sam asks thickly.

His mother wipes her face and tries to compose herself. "I can look through windows, when I remember. We all can. We can watch what happens in the living world."

"And you've watched us?" Dean asks.

"From time to time." She pulls the jacket tight. Then her eyes dart to Dean's, suddenly remembering. "You need to get back to England, Dean. Quickly."

Dean's brows knit together. "What is it?"

"Lisa," Mary answers. "Lisa and Ben need you."

Dean looks even more confused. "Who's Ben?"

Mary's mouth drops open. "Your _son!_"

The words seem to echo through the clearing.

"Oh, Dean." Mary's eyes are kind and pitying. "You've been away so long. He looks just like you when you were his age, and he's the same stubborn little child you were. Tenacious and bright and compassionate."

Dean is still working through the concept. "I have a son?"

"And he needs his father," Mary affirms determinedly. "Lisa speaks of you as her husband, lost at sea. I know the truth, but the others only suspect. And she's a pretty woman, Dean – there are men hanging about, courting her, living off her hospitality, preying on her. If you don't return soon, she will marry one of them."

"That wouldn't be so bad," Dean argues. "She deserves a better husband than _me_, doesn't she?"

Mary's face hardens. "Oh, I see. So I suppose she should marry Luke Ferrier, the man who drinks until he's unconscious and beats his whores. Or maybe she should marry Michael Scruggs, the vicar, who slaps Ben when he dozes off during his prayers and believes fasting will cure him of his 'wild spirit.' You're right, Dean, she's much better off."

Dean swallows.

"Dean." His mother smiles at him wistfully, her eyes still tinged pink from crying. "It seems like only yesterday you were a little boy in my arms. You've had to grow up so fast. But I've seen how you took care of your brother, raising him in my absence. You are the father Ben needs."

Dean nods and whispers, "You're right, Mom."

Castiel's eyes burn bright, and Sam can't help but notice the way he gazes at Dean, like he's memorizing his image.

"Sammy."

Sam turns back to his mother.

Her smile is more bitter now. "I feel as though I've failed you, Sammy, dying when you were so young. I wasn't there for you when I should have been."

"That's not your fault," he croaks.

"I know. But that doesn't change the facts." She sighs, and it's a watery, aching sound. "I love you so much, Sam. And I've had to love you from afar, but I hope you still believe that every ounce of it is real."

Sam nods jerkily, because words aren't possible.

The crowd of pale, dead figures begins to move and rustle, restless and muttering. Mary glances behind her and slips the coat off her shoulders. "I should go now," she says. "They are becoming hungry."

"Wait." Dean steps forward. "Mom –"

"Goodbye, boys." She gently presses the jacket into his hands and turns to leave. "I hope I don't see you here again for a long time." And she steps back into the crowd and mingles with the gray others and disappears, just as Pamela did.

"Mom!" Dean cries. "Mom!"

Ash walks to him and pulls him back, and the dead begin to inch forward, hungry faces leering at the them. "She's right man," he says. "These guys have had enough teasing and they're ready for chow time. I know the look. We gotta go, buddy."

The dead press forward hungrily, reaching out their white, grasping hands.

Castiel slashes his sword. "Get back!" he shouts at them, and then he cranes his neck to the others and yells, "To the ship!"

In one swift movement, the horde swarms.

Kicking and shouting and slicing, Dean and Ash and Sam and Cas fight their way back to the jetty, running at breakneck speed out of the forest and skidding across the dock and scrabbling up the rope ladder as fast as they can. They burst over the railing of the Impala and startle the crew on watch so badly that Andy bowls over completely and tumbles into a crate of chickens, who flap about madly and squawk in protest.

"Weigh anchor!" Dean shouts. "Cut the mooring!"

The Impala skims the black water into the blacker night and sails smoothly away from the land of the dead.

…..

No one speaks on the return voyage.

Well, the rest of the crew speaks, but the ones who went ashore are quiet. Most of all to each other. Jo watches Sam, and Cas watches Dean, and Ash carefully watches the other four, and no one says a word.

The second night of the journey back to Bela's island, Sam knocks on Dean's cabin door.

"Come in."

Dean is sitting at his table, maps spread out in front of him; maps of England and Europe and the Atlantic, and he's propped his head on his fist as he marks his routes.

"I saw you," Sam says.

"What're you talking about?" Dean mutters toward the table, his concentration in his maps.

"I saw you." Sam takes a deep breath. "With Cas."

Dean looks up.

"Was it." Sam hesitates. "Was it what it looked like?"

Dean doesn't answer. He just turns his face back to the table, and picks up his marking pencil.

A flare of anger burns inside of Sam, and he clenches his hands. "So it's this all over again, huh? You just gonna shut me out like usual?"

Dean closes his eyes and his shoulders sag. He sinks lower into the table, crossing his arms in front of him, and when he speaks it's so quiet that Sam can barely hear. He mumbles, "It's so much worse than it looks like."

Sam blinks.

And then he walks to Dean and puts a hand on his shoulder and says, "And you're still going to Lisa?"

Dean buries his head in his arms.

So Sam stays there for awhile, his hand on Dean, trying to let his actions say the words he doesn't have.

….


	21. Chapter 21

A/N:_ Dear darling ducklings, thank you for your reviews. Your MISHABUCKS are in the mail. I've been so busy lately that I've struggled to find the time to write, and your reviews really give me the motivation I need to keep going. I prize each and every one. _

_I'm actually pretty surprised that more of you didn't see the whole Lisa & Ben development coming, because it's sort of a major plot point of the Odyssey. If I was _really_ be__ing faithful, Ben would be twenty years old and currently searching for his father with the help of Athena. However, I didn't want to age Dean that much and I didn't want to spend that much time on what is essentially a framing device when it has nothing to do with the Destiel. _

_I feel this may also be an appropriate place to remind/inform you that this will end happily, I promise, but, uh... the night is darkest before the dawn, and all that jazz. Things are going to get bleak. But remember what I told you, and know that I am an author of my word.  
_

_Your reward for reviewing this chapter is... THREE HUNDRED DEANDOLLARS! Use your DEANDOLLARS to buy DEANS and DEAN ACCESSORIES (DEANCESSORIES) like FAST CARS, LEATHER JACKETS and DADDY ISSUUUUUUUES! ORDER NOW and receive a free CODEPENDENT BROTHERRRRRRRR!  
_

_Enjoy the chapter!  
_

* * *

**London, England**

Life has not been kind to Lisa.

She was distraught enough when she realized she was with child shortly after Dean went to sea; then, as the months wore on, it became apparent that he was not coming back. Then her mother died of pneumonia a month before the birth. The labor of delivery was difficult and long, and when the midwife placed Lisa's baby in her arms, her sweet black-haired baby with big brown eyes, she cried and could not stop crying.

She did not name him after his father.

Raising Ben was not easy. From an early age, he was rambunctious, bright and curious, never sitting still. His glee in discovering the word "no!" was irrepressible. He easily learned the alphabet, and Lisa knew that she needed to find him a tutor. Her grasp on reading was very slim and restricted to the kinds of words she wrote on receipts, but Ben was capable of so much more. The vicar was a godsend. In exchange for Ben's enrollment at his school, Lisa does all his washing and mending for free and brings him pies on the weekend.

He's a hard man, but a good one. Much more than she can say of Luke Ferrier, the blacksmith who hangs about her shop too often and gazes at her with an intensity that makes her skin crawl.

Lisa Braeden is not the lovestruck girl Dean Smith left behind. There are more lines on her face now, more callouses on her hands. She has lost a certain sparkle in her eye and gained a determination to her chin, but she has not forgotten how to be happy. She knows eight ways to cook cabbage, she has sold ever scrap of silver she once owned, and when she looks at her strong brave young boy she feels the most incredible pride and love swell in her chest; and then he smiles, and the pride is bittersweet, because when he smiles he's the spitting image of his father.

She prays every night to the Lord in Heaven. Some nights she prays for Dean to return, and some nights she prays that he's dead of syphilis. Then she prays for Lord Jesus to forgive her for praying such a thing. But every night, every night she thanks God for Ben, and prays that He keeps Ben safe in the palm of His hand.

Today, Mr. Ferrier makes a house call, and Lisa invites him to eat dinner, what meager little of it there is. He's a perfect gentleman all throughout the meal. He even pulls out a sweet from his pocket for Ben, and gives him little wooden whistle as a gift. Once she sends Ben to bed, however, he turns to her with that disconcerting gaze – a cat in the grass, watching and waiting.

He thumbs the edge of his plate idly, never taking his green-blue eyes from her. He has pale eyebrows and blonde-brown hair and Lisa has never considered him particularly handsome, but he does not need handsomeness. He knows it's not what she's after.

"Mrs. Smith," he says, in a low smooth voice, "how long has your husband been at sea?"

Lisa clears her throat and clasps her hands. "Well, it's been about six years now."

A slow smile pulls across Mr. Ferrier's mouth, one that could pass for sympathy. "It must be terribly lonely for you."

Lisa forces herself to smile back and stands up to clear the dishes from the table. "Not really. Ben's plenty of company for me." She takes the dishes to the washbasin and stacks them.

She hears the scrape of his chair as he pushes it back and stands.

"Yes, Ben is quite spirited," he agrees. "In a few short years you'll be looking for someone to take him on as an apprentice."

Then his fingers brush against her back.

Lisa spins around, and finds her face inches from his. They lock eyes. He is taller than her and he looks down at her. Watching.

"Th-that's a ways off," she stammers, cursing herself for betraying the way her heart is pounding. "But yes, I was hoping the printer would take him on. Ben's very smart, and he's perfect with letters."

Mr. Ferrier nods seriously, and he speaks with soft gravity. "Whatever you do, just don't let that vicar take him to be his acolyte, Mrs. Smith. He starves those boys. I've heard terrible tales…." He slides his hand to Lisa's waist.

Lisa stumbles back against the washbasin and shoves his hand away. "Mr. Ferrier!" she snaps, in her most outraged authoritative tone. "Mind your actions before you make a _grievous_ mistake."

He puts his hands up apologetically and pouts his lip. "I'm sorry, madam," he says. "That was incredibly impolite of me. I mean no harm. You're just so beautiful that I forget myself."

Lisa crosses her arm over her chest and pushes back a strand of loose hair with a shaking hand. "It's late, Mr. Ferrier. Perhaps it's time you went home."

Something flickers across Mr. Ferrier's face, and for a moment he speaks as plainly and honestly as she's ever heard him talk. "I'd be good to Ben, Lisa. You have my word. And the printer is a personal friend of mine."

For a moment, Lisa feels a cramp of doubt in her heart. Maybe for Ben's sake, she should…

But then her fiery resolution flares up again. "That's _Mrs. Smith_," she corrects him, "and as generous as your offer is, I am a married woman and I'm faithful to my husband."

Mr. Ferrier smiles, and he walks to the door, the face of a man who is confident in every way. "Of course, Mrs. Smith. I'd expect nothing less. But if one day the world should give up your husband for dead…" He takes his hat and coat from the rack and slips them on, and looks back at her.

Lisa does not smile.

He chuckles softly, and throws her a wink. "Well. I'll be in touch." And he walks out the door.

After he leaves, Lisa washes the dishes and prays to God one more time that somewhere, out in the great wide yonder, Dean either remembers the woman he left behind or has the decency to stay quietly buried, far far away from prying eyes.

….

**Meanwhile, on a Nameless Island in a Nameless Sea**

When Bela hears Pamela's answer to her message, she doesn't seem surprised. She just sighs and mutters, "She can have it her way then." She flicks her hair back and as easy the snap of her fingers, she flips on a bright smile and her devious darting eyes. "As thanks for your service and in honor of your imminent departure to your deaths, I'm throwing a gala tonight," she announces. "Go wash up, everyone. This is a gathering with class."

So they obediently bathe and when they return to their rooms, her bland-faced servants are waiting with fancy old-fashioned clothes and combs, perfumes and pomades. They brush and strap and lace the sailors into gentlemen; Dean bursts into Sam's room demanding to know if the servants tried to put ribbons in his hair too or if he should take it as an insult. Sam rolls his eyes and points to his own hair, neatly pulled back into a small tail at the nape of his neck with a thin black tie, and Dean harrumphs and submits to the insistent attentions of his bleating sheep-man.

"You know, I haven't really gotten the chance to talk to you lately," Sam says. His servant rubs a smooth cream into Sam's hands, softening the calloused skin. "And there's a lot to talk about."

Dean eyes the man trimming and filing his nails. "We're not exactly alone, Sammy. This isn't the best time."

"They can't _talk_," Sam retorts. "You really afraid of them spreading your secrets?"

Dean huffs. "I'll bet you ten thousand dollars that Bela speaks their language. How else do you think she knows everything that goes on around here? They're her spies."

The servant filing his nails bleats in protest.

Sam sighs. "Fine. We'll talk later. But we will talk."

Dean stands up and checks himself in the mirror, looking himself up and down with approval. "Just try and enjoy yourself for two seconds," he tells Sam. "I know 'fun' isn't a word in your vocabulary, but tonight's the last easy night we may have for a long time. So just… relax and enjoy it." He waggles his eyebrows and claps Sam on the shoulder. "Maybe try and get a little action with Bela, eh?"

"God no," Sam says vehemently. "I have no desire to go down that road. Do you know she propositioned me for a threesome consisting of her, me, and _you_?"

Dean stares at him in horror for a second, then mimes dry heaving.

"Exactly." Sam wipes his hands on a towel and stands up. "I told her I'd have to pass. And considering the only other woman on this island is Jo, I highly doubt I'm getting any 'action' tonight."

Dean looks at Sam, and for a second it's like he's searching for something in his face.

"What?" Sam asks, straightening his cravat in the mirror.

"Are you…." Dean licks his lips. "Are you and her… Is there somethin' going on there?"

Sam's straightening slows, and he lowers his hands to his sides. "Well. I'm not really sure how to answer that."

Dean frowns. "Seems pretty simple to me. Is there something going on, yes or no?"

"Yes _and_ no." Sam's eyes meet Dean's in the mirror.

Dean raises his eyebrows. "So it's not serious? You guys are just fooling around?"

Sam swallows, and he admits, "Actually, it's the exact opposite of that."

Dean blinks.

Sam flushes and he busies himself with the buttons of his jacket, shooing away his servant's hands.

"Wow," Dean says. "You really _don't_ understand fun, do you?"

"Shut up." Sam steps away from the mirror and shoves him. "Or I'll mess up your hair."

"You wouldn't dare! Do you realize how long it took that guy to braid these ribbons in?"

….

Bela's main ballroom is lit by six chandeliers and is so large that instrumentalists must play at either end in order for the entire room to be entertained by the music. Luckily, her sheep servants have learned well, and two string quartets follow the same conductor perched on a precarious podium. Thirty or so female servants have also been instructed in ballroom dancing, and they stand in their finest gowns and wait for their partners to arrive.

Let it never be said that Bela doesn't think of everything.

When the sailors enter the enormous ballroom, they squint to recognize each other. Most of them have never seen such fine clothes - jewel-toned silks and gold brocade, lacy white sleeves that billow out at the wrist and engulf the hands, ruffled cravats tied in complicated knots, knee-high stockings and large hats stuck with ostrich plumes. A few even wear curly white wigs. Dean is easily spotted due to his ostentatious tri-corner hat and his black stockings; the vivid crimson color of his suit doesn't exactly flatter him, but it brings out the darkness of his eyes and the fierce set of his jaw, and he looks every inch the captain. Sam's muted green suit disguises the largeness of his frame and seems to accent his dimpled smile. Bela is naturally wearing the largest golden dress any of them have ever witnessed and two servants help to carry her train; she sets her eye on Henrickson and approaches him, making witty conversation and fanning herself coyly.

Then Dean spots Castiel across the room.

He is not wearing a hat, or a wig. Instead his short black hair is swept up in a rakish ruffle. His intense blue suit makes his eyes look electric, magnetic, and the silver embroidery along the lapel is delicate and detailed, a work of art in and of itself. The suit is so well tailored to him that it looks a part of him, not a costume but a vestment, his rightful attire.

Dean wants nothing more than to rip it all off him.

Likewise, when Sam sees Jo, he has to stop and stare. She looks... breathtaking. Her hair is longer than its usual length - Bela's doing, no doubt - and it's coiffed on her head in soft blonde curls, elegant and stylish. Her lavender gown is full-skirted and modest, but the bodice draws the eye to her narrow waist and gives her, er, bosom definition. She looks nothing like herself and yet every part of her is the same, just tied and fitted and painted differently than before.

Sam begins to make his way towards her, feeling more nervous than he has in a long while. Something about his outfit is doing it. It just feels so fancy and _official_, like courtship or something... And that's not what he intends, not at all, but he feels like a young boy about to ask a lady of society for a dance.

It's while he's making his way through the crowd that three pirates he doesn't know too well - Eric, he thinks one is named, or maybe Julian - approach her and begin to tease. He can't hear exactly what they're saying, but he catches them in glimpses: the savage leer on their faces, the way they pluck at her dress even as she protests, the dark gleam to their eyes.

They begin to circle around her and push her toward the hallway, and Sam's heart leaps to his throat.

He races toward, cursing himself for not being there sooner. Someone steps in front of him and he darts around, pushing frantically through the crowd just in time to see -

Jo whips a narrow knife from inside her bodice, and slices the hand of Julian. The other two recoil, and Sam is close enough to hear her hiss, "You touch me again and I'll cut off your itty bitty testicles, put 'em on a string and wear 'em like a goddamn _necklace_!"

The three pirates scurry off, muttering curses under their breath and glancing back fearfully at the madwoman in purple.

Jo sighs and stuffs the knife back in her bodice.

"Wow," Sam says. "Do all women carry one of those?"

Jo starts and turns, and when she sees him she sighs again and adjusts her bodice. "Well, there goes the illusion," she says. "I only put on this stupid dress because of you. I was going for ladylike, but I'm pretty sure I just blew it out of the water." She looks up at him guiltily. "I don't suppose you missed the part about the testicles?"

Sam looks down and her, and takes her by the hand, unable to keep the warm feeling in his chest from swelling and radiating out of his smile. "Jo," he tells her seriously, "I have never loved you more than I do right now."

Jo gazes back up at him, and she smiles softly, her eyes large and bright.

"M'lady." Sam kisses her hand and gestures to the center of the ballroom. "May I have this dance?"

Jo curtsies and bats her eyelashes. "You may, kind sir. So long as your estate is suitably large."

"Oh, my estate is very large," Sam assures her, taking her arm and leading her to the floor. "Enormous, in fact."

"Oh really?" Jo asks innocently. "Because so many men exaggerate the size of their estate."

"Oh yes, very true. But you know what they say: it's not the size that counts, but how you use it. And I assure you, m'lady, that my sizable estate is put to _very_ good use."

"Perhaps, Sir Samuel, I shall have to visit your estate myself someday."

"Please do, Lady Joanna. I would be delighted."

They pause for a moment, and then laugh uncontrollably, clutching each other for support. They finish one dance on principle and then sneak away from the ballroom, eschewing their fancy clothes and dignified music for worn wool pants, a spread of rooftop overlooking the sea, and conversation that wears on until they fall asleep side by side.

...

Throughout the evening Dean and Cas circle each other, never quite nearing, always at opposite corners and always eyeing each other from the periphery. Those around them take note of their brooding mood. Eventually Ash follows Dean's gaze to Cas, and Cas's gaze to Dean, and he says to Andy, "Excuse me. I think it's time for me to work some magic."

Dean stands at the dessert table and crunches on some kind of toffee. Cas is at the punch bowl across the ballroom, talking to some idiotic looking blonde. Obviously he doesn't realize she's a sheep girl and she probably only gets half of what he's saying, unless he's talking to her about frigging _grazing_, which, okay, Dean wouldn't put it past him -

"Hey, Dean-o!"

Dean spins around.

Ash grins at him and gives him a thumbs up. "You done any dancing yet, my man?"

"Not yet," Dean mumbles, taking another bite of toffee.

Ash leans in conspiratorially. "Yeah, I know, me too, we're all thinking it - where's the booze? How are we supposed to dance sober?"

It was a good question, actually. Bela was never one to skimp on the libations.

"So anyway..." Ash rubs his hands together. "I think we might need to liberate a few casks from her cellar, liven up this snooze fest. You in?"

"Why not," Dean agrees. "You know where it's at?"

"Sure, sure, I saw where the servants brought it up last time," Ash replies. "You meet me out in the courtyard, and I'll grab one of 'em to show us where the goods are at, alright?"

Dean nods and leaves the dessert table, snaking through the crowd to the outer entrance. He sneaks out to the edge of the torch-lit courtyard and inhales deeply, taking a whiff of that fresh island air that smells of sunshine and rain, two things you never think have a smell until you smell them. Much better than that ballroom clogged with perfumes and colognes. He closes his eyes and leans against a pillar, thankful for the relief.

"Dean?"

Dean's eyes snap open.

Cas stands there, staring at Dean in confusion. "Where is the bird?"

Dean squints at him. "What? What are you talking about?"

"Ash told me there was an injured bird in the courtyard," Cas answers, looking around. "Though I gather it was a lie."

Dean swears and takes off his hat, running a hand through his hair. "He got us good, Cas. He wanted us out here, God knows why, and we fell for it."

Cas nods and walks to a stone bench. He sits down and looks up at the stars. "It's a clear night."

Dean sighs and falls back against his pillar again, looking up at constellations he doesn't recognize. "Yep. Sure is."

They stand silently like that for a moment, each pretending he is simply too engrossed to return inside. Dean opens his mouth, and shuts it.

"So." Cas's voice is low and subdued. "You have a son."

Dean laughs lightly in disbelief and walks toward him, scratching his neck. "Yeah. Talk about turning your world upside down. Before, I was always going to England for Sam, and now... Well, I guess I have a reason."

Then Cas does something completely unexpected.

He stands up and looks at Dean with anguish in his face, and blurts out hoarsely, "Dean, I don't want this to end."

Dean's chest squeezes tight and he admits painfully, "It was never going to last, Cas. We both knew that. We just didn't want to think about it."

"I know. I've always known that." Cas looks away from Dean and his mouth presses tight. "I'm sorry. I was a fool for dragging you down this road."

"Hey." Dean puts his hand to Cas's shoulder, and it's as he's trying to come up with something reassuring to say, something like, _I went willingly_, or _it takes two to tango_, or _it would've happened either way, Jesus Cas don't beat yourself up about it_, it's then that he realizes that what he's trying to do is make Cas feel better because seeing him upset makes Dean hurt inside, and he realizes:

He _cares about Cas_.

So instead he just turns Cas's face back towards him and presses their mouths together, kissing him tightly and fiercely and pulling Cas close against him. When they break apart to catch their breath, he says, "We've got until England, Cas. Let's just make the most of it."

Cas brushes his thumb against the corner of Dean's mouth and asks seriously, "What would you do if I said no?"

Dean smirks and kisses him again, but this time he snakes his tongue in lasciviously and gropes Cas's ass, grinding their hips together and eliciting a groan from Cas that hums through Dean's mouth and courses hot in his blood. When he pulls back, Cas follows him with his lips until Dean chuckles and puts a hand to his collar to hold him back.

"I'd convince you," Dean says.

Cas gazes at him, dark and hungry, and his eyes flicker to Dean's mouth. "I don't know if I'm entirely convinced..."

They leave the courtyard and are not seen for the rest of the night.


	22. Chapter 22

A/N:_ I'm staying up so late to finish this for you guys._

_Guys, I... I don't know what I'm going to do. Here's my dilemma: if you've never heard of National Novel Writing Month, it's this thing where you try to write 50,000 words in 30 days, no matter how crappy the resulting novel may be. Just so you can get the story out there. Well, it's normally in November but I KNOW I won't have the time then, so my friend and I have been planning to do it for the month of August._

_This is not a friend who knows I write fanfiction. This is not a friend that I can tell, "Actually, I'm kind of in the middle of writing a big gay epic love saga, so that might throw a monkey-wrench in things."_

_At the same time, I'm also trying to move into a place an hour away from where I currently live while housesitting for my aunt, who lives an hour away in the OPPOSITE direction._

_The Lord is testing me._

_So, my tentative plan is to try and do both. I'm going to try and write 1,600 words a day of some random other bullshit story and also average between 700 and 1000 words a day with this one. However, that being said, I don't want this story to suffer just because I'm experiencing writing fatigue or anything like that, so updates may be slower. We'll see how it works out. It may in fact kill me._

_Anyway, enough of that. This installation, your reward for reviewing is GIVING ME THE STAMINA TO GO ON LIVING_ _and also I will send you some chocolate chip cookies that Dean helped Castiel make. They're actually fairly terrible, to be honest, because Dean kept distracting Cas throughout the process and so they forgot to add the baking powder, and kissing and stirring at the same time canNOT be hygenic, and then when the timer went off they were already in the other room shagging their brains out and they didn't hear it and the cookies got burnt. So... these cookies suck. They're basically blackened chunks of Kevlar. BUT THEY WERE MADE WITH ~LOVE~._

_So yeah. I'll send 'em to you._

_Enjoy the chapter!_

* * *

Dawn, with her rose-red fingers, climbs over the horizon and spills across the sailors wherever they lie all across the island.

Andy and Barnes wake up groaning and hungover in the servants' quarters.

Henrickson wakes up in his own bed and fondly recalls the time he spend in Bela's.

On the rooftop, Sam wakes up to find that Jo has snuggled up against him in the night, like a puppy seeking warmth. Her cheek rests over his heart; his arm rests across her hip. He brushes back her hair and her eyes drift open.

"Morning," Sam says.

Jo sits up and looks at him, her rumpled hair glowing gold in the orange sunrise, and she blinks slowly, still half asleep. Lightly, gingerly, she reaches up touches her fingertips to his lips.

"I dreamt I couldn't reach you," she whispers.

Sam sits up, and his head goes fuzzy and light, he's not exactly sure he's actually awake. Maybe that's why he leans forward and wraps his arms around her and rests his forehead against hers. The words have been wavering on the tip of his tongue since the night before. He asks, "Can I kiss you?"

He feels her eyelashes brush against him as she closes her eyes, and her breath ghosts softly over his skin. "I thought we're waiting 'til England," she murmurs.

"I know," Sam says, and he realizes his hands are trembling. "But just this once."

Jo swallows, and she answers shakily, "Just this once."

Slowly, carefully, Sam slides his mouth towards hers, his heart beating fever fast. She sucks in a breath and the very tip of her lip grazes against the corner of his mouth, and he leans in –

"RISE AND SHINE!" Ash bellows down below, banging a metal spoon against a pot like it's his job to give everyone a headache. "UP AND AT 'EM, TIME TO GET A MOVE ON, EVERY SAILOR TO HIS POST!"

Sam and Jo jerk apart and blush furiously.

"C'MON EVERYBODY! WE'RE GOIN' HOME! GET UP OR WE'RE LEAVIN' YER BEHIND BEHIND! THAT INCLUDES YOU ON THE ROOF! I KNOW YOU'RE UP THERE, SAM!"

Sam runs a hand through his hair. "So… England, then?"

"HEY, IF JO IS UP THERE, GET HER ASS DOWN HERE! CARRY HER IF YOU HAFTA! DON'T BE AFRAID TO GET HANDSY!"

"England," Jo agrees, getting up and walking back towards the terrace. "Or once I kill Ash. Whichever comes first."

Meanwhile, the curtains are firmly shut over Dean's windows, and his room is still mercifully dark. Ash's commotion wakes Dean, but Cas is still sound asleep, a warm unconscious body in Dean's bed. Dean sighs and presses his mouth to Cas's neck.

Cas snores softly, and Dean smiles in the dark.

Then he realizes it's probably the last time they'll be in a bed together.

He shuffles himself around and crawls on top of Cas, and kisses along his throat, his collarbone, his jaw. He slides his hand down Cas's chest and tries to commit to memory the firmness of his body, the smooth ridges of his muscles, the heat of his skin.

Cas wakes up with a soft groan, and wordlessly presses up into Dean.

Dean kisses him eagerly, finding his mouth and slotting his leg between Cas's. He's amazed at how far gone he is already, hard and hungry, and he finds himself rubbing against the V of Cas's hip, the hollow there, and the breathless moan that Cas hums into his mouth turns him on even more. Cas is there too, and soon Dean breaks away from Cas's mouth to pant against the crook of his neck, and Cas bucks up against him and gasps in his ear. He's close.

So Dean slows it down, dragging skin against skin, pushing a hand to Cas's hip and forcing him to hold back. They're hot, so hot, slow burn and easy and achingly good, and he keeps at it until Cas is quivering underneath him, groping him desperately, his body begging against Dean's unhurried hands.

"So," Cas pants, "is lazy rubbing and heavy breathing the only thing you have planned this morning? Because I'd like to climax at some point."

"Well…" Dean murmurs darkly against his skin, purposefully slowing down even more. "I was thinking… I'd make you come in my mouth."

Cas's fingers dig into Dean's back and he mutters something in Greek.

Dean chuckles and kisses his way down Cas's body, stopping every so often to graze his teeth and enjoy the quiet strained noises Cas makes. When he finally gets to his destination Cas comes ridiculously fast, and it's only a short minute later that Dean follows and comes so hard he can't breathe.

It's a good morning.

….

After several hours of packing and prepping, the pirates finally make way for England. They've all received their instructions and they know what they're about to witness – not that that makes it any easier. Dean's just grateful that they've been through enough to take him seriously when he tells them to carry two wax plugs in their pockets. There's something about this iridescent sea, the creatures they've witnessed (and become)… On Bela's island, they were a gaggle of carefree drunks. Now, the lines deepen on their faces, and their eyes are sharp and watchful. They make jokes, but under each one is a current of anxiety.

They know some of them probably won't make it home.

They sail through the day, and the night, following Bela's complicated charts. Ash is really the only one who can completely make sense of them, though Dean and the others can comprehend enough to steer the ship. Ash babbles on about dimensional layers and metaphysical energy currents and Dean just nods and says, "Uh huh. Yup."

"The _beauty_ of it is, we could sail in a straight line forever and never circumnavigate," Ash raves, marking all over the topmost map with red chalk. "We'd just hit the River Styx, which – by the way – is _actually_ a river. Around the _ocean_. I have this theory that the underworld is actually a _third_ parallel, convergent dimension overlaid on top of this one – concentric, if you will, or, or _congruent_ – which explains the coldness, and why you can't touch them without risking a dimensional rift – in addition to ghosts in our world, which must be some sort of trans-dimensional footprint –"

Dean squints. "You know what? I'm just gonna take your word for it."

Ash glares at him. "This is important, Dean. I'm talking about the possibility of a doorway to the afterlife."

Dean nods slowly. "Okaaaay, I'm following…"

"Via an interdimensional gateway," Ash continues excitedly, "that would have to be constructed by folding a _fourth _dimension into an inverted tube –"

"You lost me," Dean cuts him off. "I'm lost. I'm in Bermuda."

"SAM!" Ash hollers out the cabin door. "GET IN HERE AND TALK TO ME, BOY! I NEED A BRAIN FOR CONSULTATION!"

All in all it's a fairly standard voyage until the next morning, bright and clear, when they stop skimming across the water and come to a drifting halt, the sun shining bright on the calm, windless sea.

And then they spot the island in the distance.

The pirates scramble for their wax plugs and jam them in their ears, everyone glancing about to make sure the others have plugged up.

"Can anybody hear me?" Henrickson shouts from the aft of the boat.

No heads turn.

"Good," he shouts. "Because I'm dumping all the treasure overboard."

A couple of heads swivel, and Sam at the fore gestures for the designated wax-distributers to forcefully cram some more wax in the offenders' ears.

They sail on in a world of muffled silence.

Eventually, they draw closer to the tiny island, and they can see its inhabitants: two large birds with women's faces, surrounded by piles of bone and rotting flesh. Their mouths are open, and the look at the sailors as they mouth the words of their haunting melodies.

One locks eyes with Dean.

She mouths something to him, and he understands what she is singing.

_We know_, she sings, her face open and sympathetic. _ We know you, Dean Winchester, and we know your struggle._

Dean blinks.

_We saw your father die, cold and alone_, she sings, a tear rolling down her cheek. _We saw you grasp his body, as you once grasped your mother's body. _

Dean steps forward, a sharp pain in his throat.

_We saw you kill Yellow Eyes, the murderer. We saw you trade your life for your brother's; chained and shackled to the galley oar, whipped and beaten and broken. We have seen your darkest hour, the horrors you have no words for, and we embrace you._

Dean walks from the helm, his feet carrying him towards the rail, and he reaches up to touch the wax in his ears, still in place, still in place.

_We see the mask of lies you hide behind, forced to keep your life a secret. _The siren smiles. _ We offer you freedom. We offer truth. We understand you, and no lies can exist between us. _

A strong hand grabs Dean's shoulder.

Dean spins to see Castiel, pointing at the helm, shouting. Sam is running toward the wildly spinning wheel.

Oh, shit.

Dean dashes back to the helm and grabs the wheel, wrenching the ship away from the rocks just in the nick of time, and breathing a sigh of relief as the wind picks up and carries them away from the island of the sirens.

…..

**Back in Bela's Mansion**

Vases smash. The cost is incalculable. Statues are toppled and cracked. Outside, men wander the grounds keeping watch for any meddling guards or servants and kill them viciously as soon as they are spotted.

Two henchmen with dark eyes and stony faces watch as their leader throws Bela to the ground. He stands out from the others, with darker skin and one blazing furious eye, the other covered by a black patch. "Tell the truth!" he shouts. "You _helped _them!"

Bela wipes the blood from her mouth and glares up at him, matching his fury point for point. "Of course I did," she spits. "I helped a little gang of lost boys find their way home. What fucking business is it of yours?"

The man fumes, grinding his teeth and clenching his fists. "Poseidon _ordered_ you not to!"

Bela pushes herself up off the ground, every inch of her stiff and bristling. "This may come as a shock to you," she tells him sharply, "but Poseidon does not own me, and neither do any of his whinging followers."

The man stands straighter, and he grins, his nostrils flaring. "I'm not his follower," he says. "I'm his son."

Bela's eyes widen just a fraction. She presses her lips together in a firm line. "You and your men have ten seconds to get off my island."

"Or what?" the man asks, laughing. "One of your brainless chambermaids will tickle me to death?"

Bela raises an eyebrow and smiles, a savage Cheshire grin that curls up the corners of her face. "Oh, sweetie," she says pityingly. "You didn't think those topiaries were just for decoration, did you?"

And she snaps her fingers.

Outside, men wander the front walk lined with leafy wolves and foxes and panthers and lions. The bushes shudder, and then spring to roaring life, bounding across the lawn, bursting inside the mansion, ripping and tearing and brutally gutting with their bloodied claws and gore-stained jowls.


	23. Chapter 23

A/N: _My beloved beautiful burgundy begonias! I thank you for all your words of encouragement regarding my novel-writing. Your reviews are so near and dear to me and seriously, you guys are the best. I always attract the best reviewers somehow, and you guys have stuck with me faithfully throughout this epic, so hats off to you. As you may know, I have a livejournal account under the same name, and when I finish this story I plan to have it beta'ed by a friend, edit it thoroughly, and post it there in its entirety. SO! That version may end up looking very similar or very different to this one, we shall see. _

_I thought I might clear up a few points from the last chapter - see, this is the problem with such a long story. I can't expect you guys to remember stuff all the way from the very first chapter! That guy who was menacing Bela was one-eyed, aka... Gordon. Remember? Remember how Dean stabbed out his eye? Zeus told him that Poseidon was getting revenge because Gordon was a fervent worshipper, but as he revealed to Bela, perhaps it's a little closer to home. _

_And yes, Gordon's an analogue for the Cyclops, Polyphemus, who incidentally was a son of Poseidon in the original Odyssey. _

_You guys should be getting class credit for reading this thing! Like, Classical Literature 101 or something! I suggest you email this story to your professors/teachers and demand to count it as homework. Someone who reviewed "Bring It On Home" said that my liberal arts education showed through in my writing, so... that's good? I guess? Haha, I have no idea. LIBERAL ARTS WOOOOO YEAH._

_Oh, and what the sirens said about Dean being a galley slave - I don't know if it's necessarily going to come up again, but that's just an allusion to Dean's time in Hell. Because in this universe, he didn't sell his soul to save Sam, he sold _himself_ and he was put to work on a ship, and it was LIKE Hell. So yeah. There you go.  
_

_Finally, your reward for reviewing this chapter is... a year's tuition waiver at Supernatural University! Here at Supernatural University, our graduating class is extremely selective. Only 0.2% of our students live to receive their Bachelor's Degree in Monsters, Applied Weaponry, Bromance or Emotional Scarring! Rest assured, we are a world-class institution and we're here to give you a competitive edge in the hunting job market. Apply now to Supernatural University: "Saving People, Hunting Things. It's Not Just The Family Business Anymore." (TM)_

_Enjoy the chapter!  
_

* * *

They sail on for another two days, making their circuitous way through the sea. Ash takes breaks from his map-studying to make music with Andy, and Dean lets Sam take the helm while he sleeps. More often than not Jo is up in the crow's nest and Henrickson is in the rigging. Castiel doesn't know enough to be of much use but he tries, swabbing the deck and doing other menial chores; Dean also suspects that he's part of the reason the winds have been so favorable.

It's so difficult to look at him sometimes. He'll be mopping with his back turned to the helm, his shirt tied around his waist, and Dean will find himself watching him and remembering the way that perfect back feels under his hands, the way it ripples and arches and _shit,_ it's never been this bad before. Never.

But as incredibly screwed as he knows he is, he doesn't realize how obvious he's been until the late night at the helm when Ash comes to relieve him for a little while.

"Thanks," Dean says, stretching his arms. "Think I'm gonna get some shuteye." He turns to walk away.

"Hey, Cap'n."

Dean turns back to Ash.

Ash is looking out to sea, but he glances sidelong at Dean and rests his arm across the wheel. "Look, I just wanted to say, in case anything happens… that it's been a pleasure sailing under you."

"Oh, come on, don't start that kinda shit," Dean protests.

Ash holds up a hand. "Just hear me out, buddy. Humor me. I need to say my piece."

Dean shuts his mouth and exhales loudly through his nose.

"I've sailed with a lot of folks," Ash continues, scratching his scraggly beard. "And you come out head and shoulders above the rest. You've been a pal to me, Dean, a true friend."

Dean clears his throat to keep it from tightening, and he nods.

"And I want you to know…" Ash looks him in the eye, carefully, honestly. "That I'm your friend, and I got your back. No matter what."

Dean's stomach clenches painfully, and he remembers Ash's courtyard prank at Bela's island. "What do you mean?" he asks tentatively.

Ash holds his gaze steady. "You and Castiel. Lust, love, or somethin' else entirely, whatever's between you, however you wanna slice it. I'm chill with it."

The shock of his directness leaves Dean speechless.

"And it's not just me I'm speakin' for." Ash chews the inside of his lip. "Henrickson, Andy, Jo. I haven't asked 'em as such, and I don't know what they've put together but I don't have to. I already know what they'll say. We'd all stand behind you, Dean. There isn't one of us you haven't risked your bacon for over the years." He smiles and shrugs. "Sides, we pirates aren't known for our rigid sexual mores. That's like the pot calling the kettle sinful. So you don't have to worry about me, Captain; I'm with you just the same. That's what I wanted to say."

Dean's eyes sting and his voice is rough when he answers, "Thanks, Ash. That… that means a lot. But you know I have to go to Lisa. I owe it to my son."

Ash sighs and rubs his forehead. "Yeah, I know. You wanna settle down, go legitimate, raise your boy, and I can't blame you." He chews his lip again and hesitates, and then he adds, "But no matter how I figure it, I can't see it makin' you happy, neither."

"It's not a question of happiness." Dean turns to go and looks back at Ash. "It's my duty."

As he walks away he hears Ash sigh heavily behind him.

…

Land rises up on either side of them, and eventually the gap begins to narrow, funneling the Impala into a strait just as Bela said it would. This part is the tricky part, and the only stretch of the journey that truly gives Dean pause.

They are about to pass between a rock and a hard place.

"Men to your stations!" Dean bellows, hands firmly on the wheel. "Hold steady, everyone!"

Jo scurries down from the crow's nest while Henrickson climbs into the rigging with Ash. Men pull on the sails and Sam has the rudder, and they all brace calmly for the inevitable until–

They see it.

On one side, a writhing sucking whirlpool more than a hundred feet across churns madly downward into a whizzing black abyss, an angry maw that is never sated; on the other side of the tight strait, a sharp white cliff rises up, its sides raked with deep gashes and sharp rocks jutting along its base. Two-thirds of the way up the cliffside, something has burrowed an enormous tunnel into the rock, and it is impossible to tell how far back the tunnel recedes.

Charybdis and Scylla.

Dean steers the Impala to hug the face of the cliff, staying as far as he can from the funneling whirlpool. Even still he can feel the drag of the current pulling the ship, and the men at the sails let out more cloth, trying to give her the extra push she needs to speed through. Cas stands near the helm and closes his eyes to hide the blue glow as the wind gusts harder and carries the ship towards the open sea. The Impala glides past the dangerous rocks and presses forward, only a furlong from escape.

Then a giant black tentacle snaps on the deck.

A chorus of screams rises up as Scylla snatches her prey, each of her eight tentacles snaking hungrily over the boat and snatching up men, coiling around them as they flail and choke and whipping them back to the dark tunnel in the cliff. One of the masts cracks dangerously. A few pirates hack savagely with their swords but she's fast as lightning, ravenous and swift. Dean can't look, can't run, can't fight – he has to keep his hands on the wheel and his eyes on the strait, but he finds himself shouting all the same, cursing, gripping the helm with white knuckles and trying to physically force the ship through.

And in a long, horrible minute that stretches on forever, he wonders if Sam got taken.

A sharp desperate howling gale later, the Impala slips out of arm's length and sails in the wide open blue ocean.

"Who's here?" Dean demands, craning his neck, his eyes darting around the boat. Men are shuddering, a few even vomiting over the rails. "Who got taken? Ash, take the helm while I take roll!"

Sam steps forward and walks to the helm.

"Sam!" Dean breathes. "Sam, you're okay."

Sam puts his hand to the wheel. "I can take the helm," he says quietly.

Dean blinks, uncomprehending. "But I called for Ash."

Sam swallows and presses his lips together, and it suddenly sinks in.

Henrickson drops from the rigging, bleeding from his arm. "I tried," he gasps, sinking to the deck. "I tried."

Castiel steps forward and helps Henrickson onto his shoulder, helping him to the berth. Dean steps away from the wheel and Sam takes the helm, and all Dean can register is a vague numb sensation where feeling should be. He walks stiffly to his quarters and sits down at his maps, all marked over with red chalk, and nothing breaks through until he reads a note Ash wrote on their most recent chart:

_This way home, _Ash noted for him, with a little arrow.

Dean puts his face in his hands and cries.

…..

Eight men are dead. In addition to Ash, Barnes was also taken. That night a vigil is held for the lost pirates, and Andy steps forward to say a few words. Red eyed and trembling, he croaks, "Ash was my bro. You know? And. And nothing's ever gonna be the same without him."

Sam can't agree more.

Later, after everyone has gone to rest in the berth except the night watch, Jo slips up to his side at the helm and puts her arms around him. Sam holds her tight and whispers, "It's almost over. We're through the worst."

Jo buries her face in his shirt.

Back in the captain's quarters, Dean wakes up from where he's fallen asleep at the table. He hears his door creaking open, and he reaches for his knife.

"It's me."

Dean sighs and wipes a hand down his face. "It's not a good time, Cas."

A solid hand slides over his shoulder. "I know."

They fall asleep together in Dean's hammock, Cas's arm draped across Dean's chest, and for once Dean doesn't give a flying fuck what anybody else will think.

….

The next day they make excellent time, sailing around various ordinary-looking islands and archipelagos under clear skies and beaming sun. It's a straight shot from here to England, just two day's more sailing according to the maps. They're so close a few swear they can taste it, that familiar cod-and-brine flavor, and Dean thinks the water looks a little less iridescent now, a little flatter, a little more mundane.

The excitement on the boat is palpable. Even after such a hard blow as Scylla dealt them, it's impossible not to eagerly anticipate the end of this entire ordeal. Even Andy looks brighter today, although not exactly chipper; he smiles when spoken to and does his tasks willingly, which is all any of them can really aim to do.

"When we get to England," Henrickson muses, "I think I'm going to retire."

"Me too," chimes in a pirate named Christopher. "I'm going to take my split of the Treasure Room and buy a little house in the country."

"Remember that big bag of gold Castiel brought on?" Julian pipes in. "There's only twenty of us left, and we each get a share of that!"

A little farther down the weather deck, Sam and Castiel are sitting on the railing eating the apples Bela sent with them.

"When we get to England," Sam says, "I'm going back to my practice."

Castiel nods and crunches into his apple.

"What about you?" Sam asks. "Dean told me about your… origins. What are your plans?"

Castiel doesn't meet his eyes, but simply shrugs. "I'm not sure."

"Well." Sam takes another bite of apple. "Are you going to return to the sea?"

"I'm exiled now," Castiel says shortly. "If I rejoin my brothers and sisters I'll be killed with extreme prejudice."

Sam swallows his bite. "Oh."

"I think perhaps I will travel inland." Castiel squints over the railing, out at the sea.

Sam brightens. "Oh, you mean like Sheffield?"

Castiel gazes at him. "Like Mongolia."

"Oh." Sam blinks. "Well. That's inland alright."

Castiel crunches into his apple.

"Or maybe you could stay in London," Sam suggests. "I could use you in my practice."

Castiel stares at him again. "It's best if I go far away."

Sam flushes and bites into his apple, and kicks himself for even trying.

Then the Impala passes around the peninsula of a particularly large chunk of green forested land, and open sea breaks into view, and then faster than they can even register a giant black ship is upon them, looming close and racing on a collision course.

"The _Ciclope_!" a man shouts from the crow's nest.

Sam's heart leaps into his throat.

Gordon's ship.


	24. Chapter 24

A/N: _My wonderful whittling warblers! I don't have much to say about this chapter until after you read it, so I'll keep this brief. However, may I just say that I I'm so happy to hear from those of you who enjoy this story. Also, I decided against my better judgment to post this installment today instead of hanging onto it for another day, so you're welcome! If there are weird typos, I want you to know that someone else clearly went back and sabotaged my chapter because my writing is _one hundred percent perfect._ Your reward for reviewing this chapter is that I will continue to neglect my novel writing in favor of this fic, and also I will send you FIVE BOTTLES OF JOHNNIE WALKER BLUE LABEL. THE EXPENSIVE STUFF. "When you just have to drink your feelings away with money, buy Johnnie Walker Blue Label!"_

_And now, the chapter you've come here for._

* * *

The _Ciclope_ bears down on their ship with cannons at the ready and men at the rails, screaming and waving cutlasses. The bright sun shines down through their black flapping sails and into the eyes of the stunned pirates on the Impala.

"How is this possible?" Dean cries out. "How did they find us?"

"Poseidon must have led them here," Sam answers, his hand going to the hilt of his sword. "Dean, we're outnumbered and outgunned."

"They don't look so plentiful themselves," Henrickson cuts in. "There's a lot fewer of them since we saw them last."

Castiel steps forward, his eyes glowing solid blue and a sharp breeze ruffling his hair and snapping at his leather coat. "We have the winds on our side. We can outstrip them."

Henrickson does a double take, and then shakes his head. "You know what? I don't even wanna know."

Jo darts over, her arms loaded with muskets and blunderbusses. "Take a couple of these puppies," she says, her eyes glittering with fear and excitement. "Courtesy of our favorite sorceress. Christopher's coming around with more shot."

"Hard to port!" Dean shouts to the crew. "Hard to port!" But even as the Impala tilts dangerously and swings in the water, the Ciclope is faster, swifter, _impossibly_ swift for her size.

They've got magic, Dean realizes. They'll never be outrun.

"Captain!" Andy shouts, clinging to the rigging and standing on the rail. "They're coming up on our starboard! They're –"

And an arrow bolts through his neck, choking him off, and he tumbles into the water.

A hail of arrows scatters across the deck, some landing their marks and a few burying into the wood. The men belowdecks light the fuses on their cannons and fire away with a bone-shattering blast, and the ship rocks and shudders with the percussion. The Ciclope bobs backward but presses onward and moments later scrapes against the starboard side of the Impala with a sickening, tooth-grinding whine. Gordon's men stream across the breach like a horde of barbarians, wild eyed and bloodthirsty cheers.

The next few minutes are deafening chaos.

They are outnumbered, yes, but not by many, and Dean's men fight tooth and nail, hide and claw, every ounce of desperation and instinct left in them pouring out in pure adrenaline and violence. Smoke and sweat and gunpowder tangs the air, a flavor of sulfur and saltpeter, and the clang of metal on metal and musket reports echo across the water. Thick white clouds billow on the horizon but the sun beats hot on the squabbling below. A toothless man with a braided beard slashes Henrickson deep across the belly; Henrickson runs him through and kicks him over the rails, then collapses himself, holding his stomach together with his hands. Sam slices and jabs, firing off his musket a few times, punching and shoving when all else fails. He's doing well for himself but he's running down and his knees are growing weak and he's got a million cuts all over and he's not sure how much longer he can take. He wipes his bloody face across his sleeve and is just beginning to wish he had spent less time in medical school and more time practicing warfare when he sees him.

The man of the hour. Gordon Walker.

Gordon stabs another pirate and yanks out his sword, grinning with that one diabolical eye, his sweaty face glistening in the sun. "Sam!" he greets him. "Just the man I've been looking for!"

"Gordon, you son of a bitch," Sam spits, brandishing the edge of his sword. "What do you want?"

"Funny you should ask." Gordon's grin turns savage. "I want your head on a platter and your brother on his KNEES!" He swings back his sword, already dripping with blood, and strikes it whistling down –

against Jo's.

"Excuse me!" she shouts. "I've got other plans for that head!" She slams her knee sharply into his groin.

Gordon doubles over and Jo shoves her short sword into his back, a brutal stake through the heart, and twists it for good measure before jerking it out.

He drops to the ground gasping and falling silent. Jo stares at the body, panting, then steps over it to Sam.

Sam can't believe his eyes, and maybe it's the gunpowder stinging them, but he blinks quickly. "You know," he says, "That was really dangerous, what you did."

Jo smiles up at him, and slides her hand up his arm. "No," she says, "_this _is dangerous." And she leans up on her tiptoes, and Sam leans down –

She cries out and her head yanks back.

"Did you really think it was that easy?" Gordon hisses, rising up behind her with one hand fisted in her blonde hair, his breath hot and rank as he presses his cheek alongside hers. He drags her backwards and Jo shrieks and clings to Sam and Sam grasps her arm and wrenches back his arm to punch the man in the face until Gordon presses his sword to her throat and shouts, "BACK OFF!"

Sam lets her arm go, nausea climbing up his throat. Two of Gordon's men burst up behind him and grab him from either side, and they kick him in the small of his back and force him to his knees.

Jo flails wildly in Gordon's arms as he keeps dragging her backwards, snarling and legs kicking, and Gordon twists the hand in her hair tighter and digs the knife into her throat until a fresh thread of crimson trickles down the blade. She stills herself, chest heaving, her eyes locked on Sam's.

"Where is Dean?" Gordon demands. "I want a word with the captain or I slit your little bitch's throat!"

"Gordon Walker." Dean strides out of the smoke with a heavy step, slightly breathless, laying the smooth bravado on thick. Castiel follows right beside him, stepping in tandem. There's a gash across Dean's side but he doesn't think anyone can see it, so that's a small blessing. "Always a pleasure. I've been meaning to write, actually, but I think I lost your mailing address."

"Don't taunt him, Dean," Castiel warns him in a low voice. "He's a desperate man."

Gordon smiles broadly and says, "Oh, I'm not desperate. I'm just _driven._" And he yanks back Jo's head and slices open her throat.

"NO!" Sam screams, lunging against the men restraining him.

Jo chokes and gurgles as her blood splashes out on the deck, and then Gordon tosses her limp body aside. She falls into the pool of her own blood, eyes open, her limbs strewn at unnatural angles like a broken doll. Her left arm flops out in Sam's direction, and her fingertips twitch toward him as her lips move silently.

Dean watches numbly as Sam shouts out her name and struggles madly against Gordon's men, every muscle in his body straining and tears streaming down his face.

Gordon steps toward Dean, a quiet smile on his face, and the clinking of swords elsewhere echoes through the silence between them. Then his single burning eye turns to Castiel, and he says, "The prodigal son! I'm surprised to see you here. I heard you defected. I'm glad to see you're still serving admirably."

"He's with us now," Dean growls, drawing a flintlock pistol out of his belt and leveling it at Gordon. "So keep your distance, fucker, and let Sam go."

Gordon raises his eyebrows and rests the point of his sword on the deck. "He's with you? Then why is he still performing the duties Poseidon assigned him?"

Dean's heart stops, but he can't look at Cas. He can't. He won't let on. He has to keep steady.

Gordon laughs heartily. "Oh, you have no idea, do you?"

Dean readies his finger on the trigger. "Cut the bullshit, Gordon. Let my brother go before I blast you to kingdom come."

Gordon's white teeth glint in the hazy sunlight. "Tell him, Castiel. Tell him the whole truth."

Dean can hear Cas's hesitation next to him, can almost hear the way his words fail him.

Sam slumps in the arms of Gordon's men, his head hanging and his shoulders shaking. Jo's eyes stare unseeing, dull and lifeless.

"Fine. I'll do it for you." Gordon steps closer, dark relish glowing in his face. "Poseidon didn't just send Castiel to spy on you. He sent him to _protect_ you."

Cas turns his face away.

Dean's hand trembles. "That doesn't make any sense!" he snaps.

"He sent him to make sure that you would outlive all the rest, that you would _feel_ the pain of their deaths and I would have the pleasure of killing you myself."

But the truth spell –

_Do you think a man loyal to Poseidon would save your life?_

He never said, did he. He never said it outright.

_If I leave you behind, I won't have a life worth living. _Humiliation and betrayal rips hot through Dean, and he pulls the trigger on his pistol and fires.

Gordon staggers backward, a deep hole burst in the cavern of his ribcage.

Dean blinks back the wetness in his eyes and he pivots to Gordon's men, whipping his sword at them. "Let go of Sam!" he snarls. "Or you're next!"

A wheezy laugh scrapes out behind him.

Dean's head snaps back to Gordon, who is straightening back up, the hole in his chest closing.

"I'm the son of Poseidon," he says. "I can't be killed." He looks to Sam and makes a clicking noise with his tongue. "Your brother, on the other hand…"

On cue, Gordon's men run Sam through.

Sam gasps, and chokes, "Dean!"

Dean breaks.

He attacks Gordon with the fury of a thousand dead loved ones, a hundred lifetimes cut short, a decade's worth of pain and misery and fear and hatred and spoiled tainted happiness and most of all, the white-hot certainty that this is the day the world ends and he's taking Gordon with him. Every memory of vulnerability and weakness in Cas's arms is revenged now, every stinging realization of his own blindness and gullibility and stupidity repaid a dozen times over in rage and visceral savagery. He slashes and hacks and parries and thrusts and delights in every bead of sweat on Gordon's brow, each drop of blood that seeps from his wounds, each grimace and flinch and stumble. He finds himself baring his teeth so hard his face hurts and it's a welcome pain. He is a wild animal, wounded and implacable and snapping roaring jaws and soon he has Gordon slammed up against the mast and he's stabbing him again and again with his sword until the blade buries into the wood behind him and will not draw out again.

Gordon spits blood on the deck and laughs, skewered to the mast and living.

Then someone grabs Dean by the shoulder and hauls him away.

"Dean," Cas says breathlessly, face smudged with black grit, his hands wet with blood, and his eyebrows knotted together. "You have to stop, you have to run while you can. You can't beat him. You'll only wear yourself down."

Dean looks him in the eye and asks, "Is it true? What he said?"

_Do you think I would risk the wrath of a god to heal a man I wanted to kill?_

No. No you wouldn't.

Castiel gazes back at him, his face lined deep with pain, and he swallows. "Yes."

Dean turns away, bitter bile clawing at his insides. "Then don't speak to me."

Gordon's men tug at the sword pinning him to the mast, though none approach Dean. They know now who he is, the one Gordon has claimed for himself.

Behind him, Castiel softly says, "I'm sorry. I love you, Dean."

And a sharp blow strikes the back of Dean's head and the shiny world goes black.

….

Dean wakes up with the earth rollicking and rolling underneath him.

Wood. A boat. He's in a dinghy. The sky is gray and the wind scrapes at his face, and Sam is dragging back the oars and pushing them forward, rowing them away.

"Sam!" Dean exclaims, jumping up to grasp his brother's arm. "You're alive!"

"Cas healed me, while you were fighting Gordon," Sam grunts, still rowing determinedly. The water slaps choppily against the side of the dinghy. "You wouldn't go willingly so he cold-cocked you and threw you in the boat."

Dean touches the back of his head, still tender, and the ache is echoed in his stomach. "And Jo?" he asks.

Sam keeps his red puffy eyes on the horizon. "There was nothing he could do. She was already gone."

Dean squeezes Sam's arm and hates the way his voice cracks when he says, "I'm sorry."

Sam doesn't say anything, just breathes more raggedly and keeps on rowing.

And then Dean looks behind him, and sees.

The Impala and the Ciclope, still locked together by splintered wood, are at the center of a building storm. Gray thunderheads swirl above the two ships and the air crackles; suddenly a jagged bolt of lightning strikes the mast of the Ciclope and her sails burst into flame, thunder splitting across the rising waves. Cas stands at the prow of the Impala, his eyes and uplifted hands glowing blue, and he thrusts one hand towards Sam and Dean's dinghy.

A gale swoops under the tiny boat and slices them across the water, sending them speeding away.

As the ships begin to recede, he sees Gordon's men swarm the prow. The glowing blue light is suddenly put out, and a wild-bearded man snaps Cas's neck sharply and drops him to the ground.

Without thinking Dean stands in the boat and screams, "_Cas!_"

Sam grimaces and keeps rowing.

The fiery center mast of the Ciclope collapses with a heavy crack and a shower of embers, crashing down onto the listing Impala. The two wooden boats slowly catch fire and the storm around them roils and billows, slamming and shattering the boats, until they are consumed by the rolling thunder and the foaming sea and sink below the waves.

Dean watches in horror.

"Sam," he croaks. "Sam, the Impala's gone."

Sam clenches his teeth and groans. "Please, Dean," he begs. "You can't… I have to keep going. Don't tell me."

The lightning flashes and thunder cracks, and the sky glowers hot and dark over the gnashing ocean.

And then, spitting forth, spraying across the surf –

is Gordon.

"Fuck!" Dean shouts. "He's alive, Sam! Gordon's alive!"

He's riding on a piece of planking, soaked like a drowned rat, one hand in the water like a guide. His plank cuts across the waves at impossible speed, jetting toward them and spewing a white wake.

Sam drops the oars, turning and shoving his sweaty hair out of his face. "We have to kill him," he pants. "Dean, we have to kill him somehow."

"You saw! He can't be killed!" Dean feels control slipping away from him, teetering on the edge of hysteria. "He's the son of a god!"

"Even the gods can be killed," Sam growls. "You just have to try hard enough."

And now they can hear Gordon's roar as he comes upon them, and Dean sees that his eyepatch is gone, stripped away by the storm. Now his one eye is accompanied by a scarred, grotesque sunken hollow.

Dean reaches for his sword.

"WINCHESTER!" Gordon bellows, standing and leaping from his plank. He lands in the dinghy hard enough to rock it dangerously and allow a heavy curl of water splash inside the boat, and he tackles Dean. "I'LL KILL YOU!"

Dean hacks with his sword but it's too close range, and lets it clatter to the bottom of the boat as he resorts to his fists, grappling and punching and twisting. Sam wraps his arm in a chokehold around Gordon's neck and lifts him off of Dean.

Gordon chokes and grasps uselessly at Sam's arm's, and for a minute Dean thinks

_This just might work_

But then Gordon's hand grapples to his belt, and before Dean can move he whips out a hidden dagger and stabs it savagely backwards into Sam's neck.

Sam's eyes widen and he falls back into the boat, his arms releasing Gordon as his blood pours out of the wide wound.

Dean's entire being rips open. "SAMMY!"

Gordon gasps for breath and grins at Dean. "Finally," he rasps, "that thorn is out of my side."

Dean shouts and attacks him blindly, all violence and no thought, his thumb desperate to gouge out that one fucking eye. He kicks and scratches and _bites_ but all too soon Gordon pins him to the floor of the boat, his knee pressed deep into Dean's abdomen and his hand on his throat. Gordon sucks in a haggard breath through his rattling bruised trachea and traces the dagger down Dean's neck. He whispers, "I've waited so long for this, and given up so much."

"Motherfucker," Dean hisses. "Just do it already!"

And with a dark, bloody gleam in his eye, lightning flashes across his face and thunder reverberates through the boat and Gordon aims his dagger

and stabs Dean

through the heart.

The pain is blinding; Gordon chuckles as Dean gasps and bucks under Gordon's knee, his body racked with throes.

And then he gasps again.

And again.

His heart pounds in his chest.

He's alive.

_Imagine pouring water from a heavy jug into a small glass with unsteady and shaking hands. It ends up coming out in big, uneven splashes, overflowing the glass._

_I wanted to heal your shoulder. So I tried, and… I'm not sure yet what the effect will be._

_I suppose we'll see._

Gordon's face twists tight with outraged shock, his eye livid and wide.

Even a god can be killed.

Dean's hand scrabbles at the sword beside him, submerged in a puddle of seawater, and he takes advantage of Gordon's surprise to drag the blade out sideways and free it, and with all his might he swings the sword and chops deeply into Gordon's neck.

Gordon jerks sideways, blood spurting out onto Dean and gurgling noises emanating from his throat. Dean throws Gordon off and drags him one-handed over the edge of the boat, his head hanging over the water, splashed by the choppy spray.

"That was for Jo," Dean says hoarsely. He puts his knee to Gordon's chest and swings back with both hands. "This is for Cas."

The blade cuts nearly through Gordon's neck this time, severing his spine and cutting through his throat. Gordon's eye rolls up to Dean, white and wide and round.

Dean yanks back the sword one more time. "And this," he bellows, "is for SAM!"

The sword cuts clean through Gordon's neck and his head topples off into the water, sinking into the rolling black deep.

Dean sits back and wipes his face, unwilling to take his eyes off the unmoving headless body. Finally he turns to look at Sam.

Sam's blood is mingling into the standing water in the boat, and his body lies pale and still and unblinking.

Dean reaches up an unsteady hand and closes Sam's eyes.

A cold gust of wind skates across Dean's face, and lightning flashes in the distance. He pushes Gordon's body out of the boat and it tumbles into the ocean with a heavy splash. Dean lies down, and a few moments later thunder rumbles wearily.

Then heavy spattering rain begins to fall, sluggish at first but then pounding and sharp, stinging Dean's face and drumming on the bottom of the boat, and he falls asleep hoping the water will rise and drown him.


	25. Chapter 25

A/N: _My cute cockatiels! I find it hilarious that right after I warn you guys that I'm going to be slower to update than usual, I start uploading new chapters like lightning. The main reasons are thusly: 1) I've basically given up on trying to write anything else until this story is finished. 2) I happened to have a lot of time on my hands the past couple days. 3) I'm finally getting to the point in the story that I've been thinking about FOR LITERALLY MONTHS and now that I know how it all basically plays out from here, my feverish desire to get out this last leg of the story is growing by the minute. It's like when you run a mile in four laps, and the first 3 laps you keep up a steady pace and by the last lap you're sweaty and exhausted, but then you're like FUCK IT, IT'S THE LAST LAP LET'S GIVE HER ALL SHE'S GOT, CAPTAIN and even though you still have a _quarter mile_ to go you just run like the dickens until you drop dead at the finish line._

_That's how I run, anyways. And by "run" I mean "jog laboriously and weep."  
_

_Also, you guys reviewed the heck out of the last chapter and I feel it's only fair to reward you and further ingrain my Pavlovian training of you. I'm glad to hear that you guys like how the last chapter was written because I'm always nervous about action sequences. In my head I can see a very clear video of what's happening but describing it can be difficult, and I usually want to just write "AND THEN THEY FOUGHT AND SHE KICKED HIS BUTT AND IT WAS AWESOME." So I'm glad to hear it worked and all.  
_

_ANYWAY, enjoy this insanely early chapter! I can't promise the next one will be anything near as quick but I'll certainly try.  
_

_P.S. For any of you who don't speak English as a first language, there's an idiom that goes "If wishes were horses then beggars would ride." Meaning much like what it sounds like, that wishing is useless. I reference it here and I didn't want anyone to be confused.  
_

* * *

**The Island of Ogygia**

A strange boat washes up on Calypso's shore.

She's on the beach that morning, crouched and playing with the little yellow crab that scuttled out from under a piece of driftwood. She teases it with her finger and smiles at the way it waves its pincers at her. Then she hears something scrape against the sand, and she gets up to investigate.

A small dinghy has been pushed ashore by the lapping tide. A purpling arm hangs over the side, and her heart sinks and her footsteps slow; she'll have to push it out to sea again.

Then she hears a low muffled moan. She quickens and runs to the boat, kicking up sand behind her.

Inside, there's a man lying inside across from the discolored corpse, chapped lips and reddish scruff and his arm strewn over his eyes. His clothes and face are crusted with salt and blood and grime and the whole boat reeks of death.

"Excuse me," she says, leaning over him, throwing her shadow onto his face. "Are you alright?"

The man's arm droops forward, and he rolls his head to the side and coughs. "Begging," he wheezes. "Begging to die. She said I'd beg."

"Can you get up?" she asks. "Come with me into the shade." She reaches in warily and gingerly touches his arm.

He flinches away from her touch and coughs again. "Can't leave Sammy," he says. "Takin' him home."

She glances at the corpse.

Sammy.

"Your friend is dead," she tells him quietly. "You have to leave him here."

The man's body shudders, and his chin trembles. "He's my brother," he cries in a torn sandpaper voice. "I promised him!"

She makes a decision, and slides her hand under his arm. "We'll come back for him. We won't be long. Just come with me and have a drink."

The man sucks in a ragged breath, and lets her pull him up.

…..

They hobble together to her lean-to, her home when she's on the beach. It's not much, but it has everything she needs – a swath of blue striped linen strung between green palm trees, offering shade; clay jugs heavy with clear spring-water; a bed made of dried palms and covered with sheets of soft island cotton. She lowers Dean onto the bed and uncorks a jug, drawing out a cupful of water with a split coconut husk. He takes it with shaky hands and drinks desperately, spilling down his chin and on his tattered shirt.

He hands the husk back to her, and she refills it.

After drinking several cups he blinks and looks around, seeming to come to senses. She breathes a silent sigh of relief, because the truly mad are difficult to treat and often die quickly. Then he looks at her and blinks again.

"You're naked," he says.

She had forgotten. "I wasn't expecting visitors," she explains, and she leaves him to go get a wrap from her clothesline. She picks out a thin pale blue one, because it looks nice on her white skin and lets the warm breeze breathe through. When she returns, the man is standing, looking at her collection of trinkets and shells she keeps in the corner.

"Who are you?" she asks.

He turns, and his eyes stop on her, darting to different points of her – her face, her hips, her feet. He's trying to unravel her, to understand her. It's a look she knows well.

Finally he clears his throat. "I'm Dean Winchester."

No.

Her eyes widen, and her throat squeezes tight. "You're Dean Winchester? Lucky Dean?"

The man laughs sharply, bitterly. "Please," he says, "don't call me that."

She nods. "If you're Dean, then I'm afraid that…" She licks her lips and summons her strength. "I have to take you prisoner. Poseidon's orders."

He raises an eyebrow.

"You are now my prisoner," she informs him.

He eyes around skeptically, gesturing one hand to the lean-to, the beach. "This is a prison?"

She looks around at the beauty before them, the calm lapping water on the maple-sugar sand, the shady oasis and sparse hardy grasses, the glossy-feathered finches picking at ripe sun-kissed seedpods, and she knows that he cannot see the lonely way the island sits in the middle of the sea or the way the birdcalls sound like sad voices in the night.

"Yes," she answers.

Dean rubs the back of his neck. "May I ask whom I have the pleasure of being imprisoned by?"

She does not want to give him her true name. It will sound cold and distant, and she wants to be warm and familiar and a friend. So she tells him, "I have had many names. You can call me Anna."

"Anna," Dean repeats.

She likes the way it sounds in his voice.

He smiles a little and steps forward. He's taller and larger than her, and he seems to size her up. "Anna," he says with false pleasantry, "you seem like a nice girl and all, but I have to get going. I promised Sam I'd get him back to England and that's a promise I intend to keep."

"I'm a Nereid," Anna blurts. "I can keep you here by force!" She conjures up a small purple flame in hand and blooms it, letting it snap and crackle inches from his face.

Dean steps back, hands up, wariness in his eyes. "Alright. Alright."

They stand there for awhile, the purple flame flickering, and Anna meets his stubborn gaze with her own uncertain defiant one.

Eventually she puts out the flame and lowers her hand, and quietly says, "We have to bury your brother, Dean."

Dean's mouth twists tight. "No," he tells her. "I'll do it myself."

…..

This island is the strangest prison Dean's ever experienced.

He supposes it would be worse if he could feel things anymore, but these days he's mostly just numb. He wishes he could return to England and raise his son, and he knows it's the only thing he has left to live for, but then if wishes were horses Dean would have a whole fucking ranch. So he lives in Ogygia instead.

It's a pleasant island.

He and Anna spend time on the beach, swimming and chasing the lizards that burrow in the sand. They collect seashells and pretty rocks, and Dean finds the tiniest little starfish and they dry it and Anna pins it in her hair. She teaches him how to tame the finches and lure them into your hand; she teaches him what fruits and berries are good and which are poison. They pull in nets of fish together and dry them over a spit and eat like kings. They don't wear much clothing, as there's no one to see them. Anna wraps a loose cloth around her or goes naked and Dean is content with a pair of linen shorts she sewed him. She has a loom farther inland and she dyes and weaves the fabric herself, though he's sure she could magic it. They hike up to the freshwater spring in the forest and collect water in buckets; it's cold and tangy where it comes up from the ground.

Months pass. Dean grows browner and his hair grows blonder, but Anna's skin stays white as ever and her hair remains dark henna red.

Sometimes he talks about Sam or Cas or his other dead friends, and she listens. She asks little questions but never the big ones, which he appreciates. She never talks about her past and he doesn't press, but he leaves a space there for her to speak it if she wants. The days are hot and thirsty and the nights are thickly warm, and sometimes they sleep out on the sand and gaze up at the stars and wait for the tide to wake them. Other nights they fall asleep together in Anna's lean-to, too warm to touch but close enough to hear the other breathing.

Often Dean goes out to the place where he buried Sam, marked with a crudely fashioned cross. When he comes back, Anna can somehow always tell, and she sits him down in the lean-to and gives him wood to whittle and tells him stories about Yellow Squid and Blue Whale, which as far as Dean can tell are nursery rhymes for Nereids or something. She makes chirpy high voices for Yellow Squid and silly deep voices for Blue Whale to make him laugh, and soon Dean knows the stories so well that he can do the Blue Whale parts himself. But then he realizes it's funnier if he says the squeaky Yellow Squid lines and Anna tries to make her girlish voice low, and that's how they do it from then on.

Dean pitches his best falsetto. "_But Blue Whale, I can't sing!_ the Yellow Squid cried."

"_Then clap your hands,_" Anna booms, "the Blue Whale replied."

Dean can't help but smile at the faces she makes for her Blue Whale voice.

"And Whale sang and Squid clapped, they made music together, and they stayed best of friends forever and ever." She rests her head on Dean's shoulder and sighs. "The End."

Dean sets aside his whittling and puts his arm around her shoulder. "Squids don't have hands, you know."

"Yes they do." Anna nuzzles into him and wraps her arms around him. "They have two long tentacles, longer than the rest, and at the ends they have round sticky hands."

They sit and watch the tide ebb out together, and the sun sets before them in the indigo sky.

"Anna," Dean says, "you have to let me go back to England."

Her arms tighten on him.

"I have a son there," he tells her. "I have to be there for him."

"I can't," Anna whispers.

Dean turns his head to look her in the eye. "Can't, or won't?"

She gazes back at him with her big brown eyes, and then presses forward and kisses him.

They make love in the lean-to, and it feels almost inevitable. There's too much loneliness and companionship between them for their lives to unfold any other way, and it's good, if a little hollow. She's a beautiful woman, naturally beautiful, bare and unafraid, and she's soft and gentle and caring. Her mouth tastes sweet and Dean thinks her hair smells like lilacs and ginger blossoms.

The next morning they pack up and travel inland for the rainy season, to a cave that Anna calls her "forest home." The forest around them is lush and dense with life, and the large cave offers shelter from the tropical monsoons. She's carved a chimney out of the rock and they light fires fed with fragrant cypress wood, and they roast the wild pig Anna spears and sleep together on a bed of quilted furs and dried moss. In the darkness when the wind howls outside and Anna snuggles up against him Dean can almost believe he is happy.

When the emptiness in his gut tells him otherwise, Dean wakes Anna up with a kiss and makes love to her again, trying to drown out the silence of his heart.

….

A year goes by.

Dean asks Anna from time to time about leaving, but she never gives in. She tries to distract him with whatever's handy, planning expeditions down to the beach for shell-collecting or up to the jungle for tree-climbing adventures. They learn to imitate monkey calls and Dean teachers her checkers with some colored rocks and a board drawn in the dirt. He finally tells her the story of how he was born in North Carolina but a marauder killed his mother when he was four, and he spent the rest of his childhood being raised on a pirate ship by the most infamous pirate of them all. He tells her how he looked out for Sam and the mingled pain and pride he felt when Sam ran away to England to become a doctor. He tells her about his father's disappearance and Jessica's death, and how he dragged Sam back into the life that would eventually kill him. He tells her about burying his father and finally killing Yellow Eyes. He tells her about Sam getting caught and sold to the authorities by Gordon and condemned to the galley, and how Dean bribed his way into taking his place, the agonizing months of slavery that followed, how he escaped during a bloody shipwreck and reunited with Sam. He tells her how they set sail for England for the last time.

"And then Cas came aboard." Dean draws a line in the sand with a charred stick. "And everything changed."

Anna watches his face, even though he doesn't meet her eye. She always acts like his stories are engrossing. "And you became friends?"

Dean pushes the sand with his stick. "Not at first," he admits. "And not just friends."

She trails her fingers softly across his arm. "Brothers," she whispers.

Dean shakes his head. "No. Different."

She doesn't say anything, just keeps her hand on his arm.

"You remind me of him, a little." Dean sets down his stick and props his elbow on his knee and looks at her.

She nods. "We're both Nereid. Born of the sea."

"Are you guys – are you guys actually _born?_" he asks, curious.

"Well, we are created," she explains, "and we are created as grown beings, but we experience... a youngness. In our first years we are young, and we don't know anything, and the older ones teach us about the world."

"Yellow Squid and Blue Whale," Dean comments.

Anna smiles. "Exactly!"

And then Dean doesn't know where it comes from but the words suddenly bubble up in his chest and he blurts, "He said he loved me, Anna."

Anna tilts her head slightly and slides her hand down to cover his.

"The last thing he said to me was that he loved me." Dean's throat tickles and he looks down to the sand. "And it sounded… like he meant it."

She twines her fingers through Dean's. "Did you love him back?"

Dean closes his eyes, and his face heats up.

"You don't have to be ashamed, Dean," she whispers. "Love is not easy. You should be proud."

"I'm ashamed because…" Dean swallows tightly. "Because he gave his life for me, and the last thing I said to him was 'Don't speak to me.'" He gives a painful half-chuckle and opens his eyes again. "Some love, huh?"

Anna kisses his shoulder. "The last words aren't important," she tells him. "What's important are the words you meant the most."

_Just so we're clear –_

_This is good, so good, so fucking good._

When Dean falls asleep that night, Anna's hand on his heart and her red hair fanned around her, he wonders if she only said that to make him feel better, and hopes that somehow it's really true.


	26. Chapter 26

A/N: _Oh, my readers. My dear dear readers._

_I happened to glance at my A/N for the first chapter of this story, and I feel so bad. I promised you a "screwball adventure" and "less angst, more stripey shirts and bobbleheads." And may I just state for the record that this WAS my original intention._

_Somewhere, I went astray._

_Maybe it's because the source lends itself so well to pain and agony? Maybe I've simply become a poor man's Joss Whedon, here to destroy all your happy fun times with crushing horrible grief. In any case, I'm sorry to put you guys through the wringer but I thank you for reading and reviewing. You keep me from caring and/or noticing that it's way past my bedtime. This chapter, your reward for reviewing is your very own copy of SAM WINCHESTER'S GUIDE TO HAIR GROOMING. Want those lush locks to wow your witnesses? Want trendy tresses to make those monsters say "More more more"? Just follow SAM WINCHESTER'S GUIDE TO HAIR GROOMING and watch the world take notice! _

_Annnnnd that's enough of that. Here's the chapter._

* * *

Late one night, Dean has a strange dream. It's less of a dream, really, and more snippets of memory strung together and clicking into place. He wakes up with a start and a pounding heart, and for the first time in over a year he feels terrifyingly alive.

The next morning, he starts building a raft.

"What are you doing?" Anna asks him as he hauls a driftwood log across the beach.

"Well," Dean grunts, "I buried Sam in the boat, so I'm building a new one."

Anna stops and stares at him. "You can't leave here."

Dean lines up the log with the others he's collected. "Yeah, you mentioned that before."

She raises her chin. "I'll stop you."

Dean brushes off his hands and looks her in the eye. "You can try."

He works until sundown and when he returns to the lean-to, Anna's lying naked on the bed with hard glittering eyes. He takes the offer and the sex is intense, breathless and fast and bruising, and after it's over she doesn't stop but keeps kissing him and moving against him desperately.

"You're mine," she pants in between kisses. "You can't go, please, stay with me."

Dean pushes her back a little, tucks her hair behind her ear and whispers, "Anna. You know I can't."

Her lip trembles and her eyes shine. She blinks and a tear rolls out the corner of her eye.

Dean wipes away the tear with his thumb and swallows against the lump in his throat. "I'm sorry," he says. "But I have to go."

He falls asleep with his arms wrapped around her and her face buried in his neck.

…

Dean works steadily on the raft for the next two days, cutting and tying and fashioning a sail. Anna doubts its seaworthiness, and she refuses to help him with it, staying a quarter-mile down the beach while he works on it. The undercurrent of tension between them grows stronger, and they spend more time in silence. On the second night Dean tries to ask her what exactly she's prepared to do to stop him, but she kisses him to quiet him and whispers "Don't talk about it, don't talk about it Dean." Something in the way she kisses him, though, convinces him that she's bending, and he falls asleep easier than he has for the past two nights. **  
**

"You? You expect to be welcome here? You _abandoned _him when he needed you the most."

Dean wakes up, his eyes and ears foggy. Anna is gone from the lean-to, and he hears her voice drifting from a little further down the beach, distant and small on the wind. The night is dark, with the moon hidden behind the clouds, and the dull noise of the waves disguises which direction her voice is coming from.

"Look, Zeus is majorly P. O.'ed at the current state of affairs," another voice drawls, "but you certainly haven't made it easy on him."

Dean sits up.

"Why, because I sheltered him?" Anna demands. "Because I took him in without question?"

"Because you _hid_ him," the other person – a man – replies. "He's been harder to find than Waldo in a candy-cane factory and I'm guessing you had a little something to do with that. And by the way, don't think I don't know what's going on here. Somebody found a little boy-toy love slave and doesn't want to let him go."

Dean peers into the darkness, and he sees the silhouette of Anna and a man, but he can't make out the face.

"He's not my slave!" Anna snaps.

"But he _is_ your prisoner, isn't he?"

Anna says nothing.

"Right. Well, just hand him over to me and I'll say no more about chains and whips and roleplaying."

Dean stands up and walks out of the lean-to. "Hand me over to who?"

Anna freezes.

The man steps forward, and as he approaches him Dean can make out his shrewd face in the moonlight, his calculating gaze and confident smirk. The man sticks out his hand. "The name's Hermes, kid. Mailman of the gods. The most underappreciated Olympian."

Dean shakes his hand warily. "You visited Sam before, right?"

"Sure did." Hermes sighs. "Man, I lost a lot of money when your brother kicked it before you. I really thought he had it in the bag."

Dean hurls a punch at Hermes's jaw -

and whiffs empty air.

"Nice try, Tyson," Hermes says from behind him, only a few inches from his ear. "But I'm fast."

Dean spins to glower at him, and Anna glares at Hermes and crosses her arms. "Cut it out."

"Hey, hey, I'm not the bad guy here." Hermes raises his hands apologetically. "I just came here to procure your freedom, Dean." Then he tucks hands in his pockets and adds, "And may I just say, I'm impressed at how fast you've picked up Greek."

Dean frowns. "I don't speak Greek."

Hermes laughs. "Is that so? You're speaking it right now!"

Dean's eyes dart to Anna, and she bites her lip. "It's just a little spell," she says. "I put it on everyone who comes here so they can understand me."

Hermes rolls his eyes. "ANYway, the long and short of it is that Poseidon's finally gotten over the whole vengeance-crusade and Zeus sent me to tell you that you can go home. Set sail with the next tide and you can be in England by Tuesday. Capisce?"

"No," Dean growls, hot ire rising in his chest, "no _capisce_. I need to sort out a few fucking things with you _right now._"

Hermes raises his eyebrows. "Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bungalow."

"Let me get this straight. You zip around between planes of existence like a goddamn bluebird, free as the fucking wind," Dean rants, "while ALL of my friends and family get slaughtered by a homicidal revenge-crazed demigod. You don't lift a single fucking finger while I drift in open water for days with the corpse of my murdered brother. You come here and complain to me about your shitbag financial problems because you put money on the prospect that _I _would die before him. And you think, you think you're just going to pop in and wish me luck before I go on my merry way? On my own?"

Anna watches Dean wide-eyed.

Hermes purses his lips and considers. "That seems to be the gist of it."

"No." Dean steps forward and gets close enough for the little god sense the force of his anger, the height and breadth of his fury. "That's not how this is gonna work. You're going to take me wherever I want to go and you're gonna do it with a smile on your face. None of this sailing bullshit."

Hermes rolls his eyes. "Hate to break it to you, buddy boy, but one: I don't want to, and two: I'm a god. There's not a whole lot you can _make _me do."

Dean smirks bitterly. "Yeah? Well I'm immortal now. And if you don't do this for me, I'm going to dedicate the rest of my existence to hunting you down, breaking your legs and setting you on fire."

Hermes considers again.

Anna's eyes are as round as saucers.

"Alright," Hermes says. "The fire convinced me. That takes dedication. I'll do it."

Dean turns to Anna and puts his hands on her shoulders. "Come with me, Anna. Don't stay here all alone."

She looks up at him with big, sad eyes. "I'm the stewardess of Ogygia, Dean. I can't leave here. If I do, the island will die."

It suddenly makes sense now; the lushness of the island, the way the flowers seem to bloom under her smile, how the animals practically eat from her hands.

"Goodbye, then," he tells her, a deep ache settling in the pit of his stomach. "I don't think I'll ever be back here."

Anna's face draws tight, and she runs her hand up Dean's arm and takes a deep breath, and she shakily tells him, "It's not fair. It's not fair to make me let you go."

He draws her in and presses a kiss to the top of her head. "I know. But it's not fair to ask me to stay, either."

"C'mon, Dorothy," Hermes chides him. "I don't have all night. Let's get those ruby slippers a' clickin'."

Dean steps away from Anna and her fingers cling to him until the last second.

Hermes puts a hand to his shoulder and sighs wearily. "Hello, welcome to Olympia Express, I'll be your driver today. Where to, valued customer?"

Dean looks back at Anna one last time.

She has heartbreak written on her face, but she gives him a quivering smile.

He nods and gives her a little smile back, a painful ache in his throat.

Then he turns to Hermes and says, "Take me to Bela's island. I don't know the name. The island of Bela the sorceress."

Hermes frowns. "What?"

Dean scowls. "Just do it!"

They disappear in a flash of dark.

…

They reappear in Bela's bedroom.

She yelps and jumps up, snatching a knife from her vanity table. Then she blinks and sees who it is. "Dean!" she exclaims. "What the hell are you doing here? And where are your clothes?"

Oh yeah. Dean looks down at his linen shorts. "Yeahhhh, I'm gonna need to borrow some from you."

"And you!" She points her knife at Hermes. "I told you, I was drunk and it's never happening again."

Hermes smirks. "Bela. So good to see you again."

She's wrapped in a fluffy white bathrobe and her hair hangs down in wet tangles, and Dean realizes it's the first time he's seen her without makeup on.

"Bela," he says, "I have some questions for you and it's important that you answer them truthfully."

She grabs a towel and rubs it through her hair. "Or what?"

Dean presses his lips together and exhales heavily. "Or I'll come back and hunt you down and chain you up in a basement."

Her green eyes flash, and she grins. "How do you know I won't like that?"

Hermes snorts.

"And I'll shave off all your hair," Dean adds flatly. "And your eyebrows."

Bela pouts and sits down at her vanity. "Fine. What do you want to know?"

"When you sent us to the land of the dead." Dean sits gingerly down on the edge of the vanity, watching her face for any tells. "You told Pamela that your offer still stands. What exactly did you offer her?"

Bela uncaps a pot of red waxy pigment and rubs a thin brush in it. "Why is that important?" She brings the brush to her lips and begins to paint.

Dean leans in. "I think you offered to bring her back from the dead."

Bela's brush stills, but only for a moment.

That tiny reaction sends exhilarating hope coursing through Dean, and his heart picks up speed. "Ash studied your maps," he continues, "and he told me that he thought it was possible that there was a doorway between their world and ours. I think you know where that doorway is and how to get people through it."

She sets down her brush. "Dean, no. It's impossible. You'd never survive the journey."

He chuckles. "Well, it turns out there's a lot of things I can survive. Apparently I'm immortal."

Bela cuts a sharp glance at him. "I know that, Dean. I'm not blind. That kind of magic leaves a mark."

Dean blinks. "Wait, you've known? This whole time?"

"Of course." She opens up a crystal dish of peach-colored powder. "I thought it was obvious. Did you think I seduced you just for your pretty face?"

Hermes snorts again.

"Well, uh, yeah," Dean stammers. "Kinda."

She laughs and powders her cheeks lightly. "Dean, Dean, Dean. I wanted you because you'll live forever. Men like you are a rare and prized commodity. That's the only reason I even bothered trying to come between you and your loverboy." She sighs and touches the bags under her eyes in the mirror. "I was so close, too. I very nearly had you completely…."

"So the land of the dead," Dean reminds her. "I can't die, so it should be easy."

Bela gazes at him seriously. "It'll give you a run for your money, Dean. It'll try to suck the life out of you. The living aren't meant to go there. And that's not even touching on the difficulty of the route itself."

"But it's possible." Dean can barely allow himself to believe it.

"Only in the strictest sense of the word." Bela stands up and walks to her dressing screen, shedding her robe in a carefully orchestrated movement that allows the briefest glimpse of nudity and nothing else. "I'm telling you, Dean, it's not going to be a walk in the park."

"I don't care if it's a fucking marathon through a tar pit!" Dean exclaims. "If there's even a chance it'll work I have to try!"

"Pardon me for interrupting," Hermes cuts in, "but I feel like we're all avoiding the obvious problem."

Bela rummages through her closet. "Which is?"

Hermes wanders over to her nightstand and slides open a drawer. "Dead people are dead. They don't have normal bodies. They can't just go traipsing about through the realms."

Bela peeks around the screen. "They can if you know the right doorways."

"What does that mean?" Dean asks. "Is that why Pamela said no, because she'd be some kind of half-dead monster thing?"

Bela exhales heavily and pulls on a satin shift. "I mean, in the underworld there's a portal to the living world that will restore their bodies. If you bring a dead person through it they will become completely alive, at the same age as their age of death." She steps from behind the screen and languidly drapes her arm against it. "Pamela refuses because she believes in idiotic concepts like 'the natural order.'"

"The natural order isn't idiotic," Hermes says, quickly sliding her nightstand shut behind him. "It keeps the universe from devolving into chaos."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Chaos, schmaos. Bela, I need you to make me a map to this portal. Tell me everything I need to know to get my people back."

"People?" Bela's fingers tighten on the screen, and her eyes widen. "You intend to bring back more than one?"

"Of course," Dean answers readily. "I got more than one person killed."

"Christ on a cracker," Hermes mutters.

"With each additional person you try to sneak out, the danger increases exponentially," she warns him. "And you do realize…" She hesitates.

"What?" Dean asks.

She gives him a long, honest look. "Castiel won't be there. He's a Nereid. They don't go to the land of the dead."

Dean rubs his mouth and tries to ignore the way his stomach drops at her words. "I had considered that might be true, yes."

"Look, we can't do this," Hermes pleads. "This is violating every law of man and nature. We're talking Titan-level no-nos. If we get caught we'll be _lucky _if they kill us."

Dean grins. "Then it's a good thing you're fast."

"Not fast enough." Hermes shakes his head. "I'm serious, Dean. I can't be party to this. I'll drop you off and pick you back up, don't ask for anything more."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Dean tells him. "Just don't give me any less."

So they prepare to do the unthinkable. Bela gives him all the information he needs, and supplies him with clothing and the proper tools in a small satchel. She tells him that she's only helping him because he's so pathetically pitiable, but he tells her that he'll say hello to Pamela for her. He checks everything twice and then looks to Hermes.

Hermes puts a hand on his shoulder. "You ready?"

Dean takes a deep breath. "Take me to the land of the dead," he says. "I'm getting back my crew."


	27. Chapter 27

A/N: _Thank you for your reviews, my mellifluous mackerels! It's because of you that I push myself to write on this story even when there's a perfectly nice bottle of wine waiting for me in the fridge. I know, I know; you're thinking, "But CouchCarrot, I was about 98% sure you wrote all your updates stone cold drunk!" Well, sorry to disappoint you, but this junk is all the fully intentional doing of my sober self. I could probably improve the author notes with a little inebriation, though._

_As you may have guessed, this story is taking a detour from the Odyssey and heading in the direction of - well, quite a few Greek myths, actually. Orpheus, Cupid and Psyche, Hercules... Lots of people have traveled to the underworld in Greek myth, some more or less successfully._

_Speaking of drunk, I'm sober and yet typing the word "successfully" just blew my mind with all the double letters in it. Whoaaa._

_IN MORE RELEVANT TOPICS, your reward for reviewing this chapter is your very own SuperSEXual Phone-Sexxx Hotline. Call any of your favorite characters for a _steamy, hot, adult_ good time. "What am I wearing? I'm wearing a trenchcoat and a suit. Excuse me, my manager is tapping me on the shoulder."_

_"Jesus, Cas, no. You gotta lie."_

_"Why?"_

_"Tell 'em you're wearing something sexy, like - like lingerie."_

_"Lingerie."_

_"Yes. Christ. Do I have to hold your hand and walk you through this?"_

_"I would enjoy that, yes."_

_"FOCUS, Cas. Get back to work!"_

_"Hello. It's Castiel. I've returned. I am now wearing a trenchcoat, a suit, and lingerie."_

_..._

_So yeah. That'll happen if you review.*_

_Enjoy the chapter!_

_*It most definitely won't happen._

* * *

There are five rivers that flow through the underworld:

Acheron, the river of pain.

Cocytus, the river of lamentation.

Lethe, the river of forgetfulness.

Phlegethon, the river of fire.

Styx, the river of hate.

The only entrance into the kingdom of the dead is through the still waters of dark Acheron. Deep in the heart of a sodden marsh, the light of any sun blocked out by the thick overhanging vines, black-leafed cypress trees reach out their thick-knuckled roots and submerge them in the still river; a pale misty fog clings close to the ground and rolls across the water, a fog made of wispy sighs and groaning last breaths. There are no crickets here, no bullfrogs croaking, no lightning bugs drifting through the shadows – just darkness, and the occasionally rustling of the wind through the cypress. Down the river a narrow craft breaks the water, gliding along slowly, skimming gently. It is manned by a small woman with short black hair, dressed in in gray nondescript rags. She lowers her pole down into the dark water and pushes her craft forward, unhurried and unconcerned.

Hermes comes to land on the bank of the river, one of the few areas of solid ground. "Alright," he tells Dean, "here's your stop."

The boatwoman pushes her craft languidly toward them.

"Thanks," Dean says. "Just don't forget to come for me on the other side."

"Well, even if I did forget, I'd just be doing us all a favor," Hermes muses, "since you probably oughta be dead and your friends definitely should be."

Dean stares. "Are you serious?"

Hermes winks and disappears.

Just as the boatwoman gets close enough to properly see Dean, she stops. She sticks the pole deep in the mud and anchors herself. "You aren't dead."

Dean twitches a smirk. "Yeah, well, you're not a dude. So I guess we both had our expectations dashed."

Her gray-brown eyes flash indignantly, and she lifts her pole to push away. "Go home, little boy," she tells him. "I don't have time for your asinine jokes."

"Wait!" Dean calls. "I'll pay you a double fare!"

She looks back at him over her shoulder and rolls her eyes. "Yes, because I do this job for the money." She pushes her narrow boat away.

"Please!" he shouts. "I'll give you anything!"

She ignores him and glides away.

So Dean does the only thing he can think to do in that moment. He makes sure his bag is tight, points his hands out in front of him,

and dives into the river.

If you've ever submerged yourself in an icy stream or autumn-chilled lake – perhaps testing the water first, wading in with sucked breaths, allowing your lower half to acclimate, then finally saying an oath and plunging your whole body under the water – then you know the shocking pain of first contact, the rush of blinding surprise when the water engulfs your ears and eyes and nose, the gasping clench of your body as it struggles against its senses.

This is a little like that, and a lot like unimaginable agony.

Dean chokes in the black water, his limbs spasming, his world suddenly without direction or meaning or understanding and drowned in a flood of pain. It's a testament to his survival instinct somewhere in the back of his primal brain that he somehow manages to surface, gagging on ragged desperate lungfuls of air and screaming wordlessly. He can't see or hear or think but he thrashes onward, and the longer his head is above water the longer he can sense that his suffering has a destination, an end, a_ goal_, and even as his throat rips hoarse and the leaking of his eyes mingles with the water dripping from his face, he knows he must _continue_, he must _press on._ The pain channels into a drive, into a force stronger than desire and nearly surpassing need, and he finds himself propelling forward while the edges of his white vision turn gray. And then, in a moment of sheer black airlessness and just as his body begins to lift outside of itself and detach into the ether,

his hand slaps on wood.

He claws and clutches the wood, nearly vomiting with roiling hope, and drags his useless body against it, slamming the side until his pain whispers, _more, higher, more_ and he gives every ounce of human strength to his arms and hauls himself over the side.

The pain stops.

Dean lies still and sobs in relief.

"Holy shit," he hears the woman's voice say. "You're insane."

Dean sucks in fucking amazing painless air and digs into his pocket with a trembling, twitching arm. He slaps the two wet coins on the bottom of the boat and chokes back on his weeping, though his eyes still stream hotly.

"Your fare," he gasps. "Double."

She takes the coins and drops them in a tin with a clink. "You wouldn't pull a stunt like that on the Phlegethon," she mutters.

Still, she pushes on her pole and the boat skims forward, gliding up swampy Acheron and carrying them towards the heart of the underworld.

…..

A little ways down the river Dean recovers his power of speech and stops convulsing long enough to consider his surroundings.

"So, Charon," he says in a still-hoarse voice, "I take it that swimming is discouraged."

She glances back at him in surprise. "I'm not Charon. My name is Tessa."

Dean scratches his temple. "Sorry, I was told the ferryman was named Charon."

"He is," she confirms. "But there's more than one ferryman. There are too many people dying these days for just one."

Dean thinks about this, eyeing the empty boat and the barren swamp. "Did I arrive after business hours, or something?"

Tessa smiles. "The underworld exists out of time. You can't see the others because you are not here in the same time; we filter you through on different simultaneous hours. In reality, there are hundreds lingering on the shores waiting for a ride."

Dean squints and cocks his head. "Okay, I'll just pretend that you said something that makes sense, then."

She laughs a little and shakes her head. "Mortals always have a hard time."

Dean pulls his knees up and levels a serious gaze at her. "Is that what you see when you look at me?" he asks. "Just another human? How do I look to you?"

Tessa stops pushing her pole a moment to look at him, really look at him. "I see an ordinary man," she replies, "who has been given an extraordinary burden."

Dean furrows his eyebrows. "Burden?"

Tessa looks at him as though it's obvious. "Of course," she says. "Immortality is a terrible burden to carry."

Dean snorts. "Seems pretty cushy to me."

She returns to her pole. "Death is a gift, a release from struggle. To live forever is to never rest."

Something stirs in Dean's heart at her words, something echoing the truth in them. He shrugs it off and asks bitterly, "Oh yeah? Then how come the land of the dead is run through by a literal _river_ of _pain_?"

The boat cuts through the black water, leaving an even symmetrical ripple behind it. "Where do you think the pain comes from?" Tessa asks. "It's the pain shucked off by the dead as they cross into the underworld. When they cross the Acheron, they leave their pain behind them."

Dean doesn't say anything more. He just watches the slow river and observes the way it winds through the cypress trees, wondering how much longer their journey will be.

Eventually the boat grinds against a solid outcropping, and Tessa tethers it with a small rope to a hook of rock. "Here you go," she announces. "We've arrived." Just beyond the rock, a small trail is visible, overgrown and dark.

Dean clambers up onto the rock, then looks back down at the mysterious woman. "Tessa," he says, "thank you for bringing me here."

She puts a hand to her hip and shakes her head. "Don't mention it. Really, don't mention it to anyone."

He smiles. "Your secret is safe with me."

…..

Dean follows the trail for months, or perhaps only minutes. He's not entirely sure. Every step is an eternity and the blink of an eye at the same time. When he thinks about it too hard he stumbles over his own feet, so he tries not to think about it.

He digs in his satchel and eats the waterlogged bread inside it, which thankfully doesn't taste the way the river felt but does have an unpleasant metallic aftertaste. He keeps walking, continuing on and on.

Finally the trail leads him to the crest of a hill, and as he climbs over the summit he spies his next challenge:

Cerberus.

Cerberus was described to Dean as a giant three-headed hound, but now he finds that description really doesn't do the creature justice. It looks more jackal than hound, with yellow-brown and black roan fur, three long smiling narrow snouts with lolling tongues and slender sharp teeth; its eyes are black and keen, its hackles thick and muscular, its legs gangly and built for speed. It looks to be about as tall as Dean, but it's hard to tell when it's sitting down.

Cerberus lounges in front of a narrow bridge over a clear river. Lethe, Dean's willing to bet. Yeah, there's no way he can swim across this one. There's just one way to cross it.

Dean pulls the wax-paper wrapped lump from his bag, and feels its waterlogged weight sink into the pit of his gut. "This better work," he mutters to himself, and he descends the hill.

Cerberus notices him immediately, dark shining eyes locking on Dean and all three of its grinning mouths snapping shut. It leaps up swiftly and the heads growl at him in unison, a deep rumbling roar like an earthquake welling up in the ground.

"Hey there," Dean says weakly. "Easy boy." He shakes the package. "I got a treat."

Cerberus growls deeper, each lip curling up against its white teeth.

Dean hefts the package, and tosses it towards the bridge.

Cerberus snaps its right head up and catches it mid-air.

Dean gulps.

The right head crushes the lumpy package in its powerful jaws and tastes the sweetness inside. It chews the wax-paper and cake and swallows it down, jerking its head back and smacking its tongue to get all the last bits. The other two heads whine in jealousy.

Dean wipes his forehead.

Cerberus wags its single tail and then remembers Dean, barking at him fiercely and charging. Dean stumbles back and scrambles up the hill but Cerberus is faster, swifter, and it knocks Dean down with its enormous paws and pins him to the ground. Dean struggles to escape and the three heads snap at him, drool frothing at the corners of their mouths, and the left head grabs his shoulder and clamps deeply into it. The teeth slice through the meat like knives.

"Motherfucker!" Dean shouts, kicking savagely at its body.

Cerberus drags him up by his shoulder and shakes him, worrying him like a dead fowl and then dropping him on the ground. Dean shouts again and crawls frantically, trying to get up, knowing he can't escape. He feels the familiar certain dread in his gut and prepares himself to die, hysterical thoughts about how conveniently located he is racing through his head -

And then he hears a whine behind him.

He turns.

Cerberus is wobbling on its feet, its three heads looking to each other in confusion. Slowly it sinks to the ground unevenly, toppling with a heavy thud, and its heads lower uncertainly and close their eyes.

The dog begins to snore.

"Thank you, Bela," Dean groans to no one in particular, clutching his wounded shoulder. After the Acheron adventure the pain is bearable, but the blood loss might not be. He takes off his bag, slides off his jacket with a hiss and strips off his shirt. It was a nice shirt. He pulls out his knife and slices it up, tying the strips together, binding the shoulder with grunt and the help of his teeth.

When he's finished, he carefully pulls back on his torn and bloody jacket and grabs his bag. He gets up. With a weighty sense of formality and gravity, he walks past sleeping Cerberus and onto the bridge, crossing it into the pale green grass of the other side.

He's in the kingdom of the dead.


	28. Chapter 28

A/N: _My poor, poor readers. I'm so sorry this update has taken so long! Life has been crazy, and I really have no other excuse except that. I've been super busy and responsibilities keep getting in the way of my writing; plus, whenever I have to take a day away from my story, I feel like it takes twice as long to get back into it. This section has been hard to write because balancing exposition with action is such a delicate process. I also feel bad because I realize that the last few chapters of my allegedly Destiel story have a distinct lack of Castiel. I apologize for that. Damn my narrative structure and my inability to write straightforward gay erotica!_

_Your reward for reviewing this chapter is five extra hours of sleep, because that honestly sounds like the best possible thing in the world to me right now. My mother thinks she's going to get me up early tomorrow (HA!) to help her do work (HA HA!) in a place with no internet (HA HA HA!). Little does she know that I'm diverting all my possible energy to homosexual pirate adventures. _

_Okay, okay, your real reward is that you get to play Seven Minutes in Heaven with Dean Winchester. For those of you who have never played (and quite honestly, I've never met anyone who actually has), this party game theoretically entails being locked in a closet for seven minutes with a person of the opposite gender and getting up to junior-high-style shenanigans. College age readers will recognize the twentysomething variation of this game, commonly known as Get Really Drunk and Dare People to Make Out in the Course of a Drinking Game, aka It's Only Uncomfortable If You're Sober. Other variations of this include I Really Wish I Remembered What Happened Because Everyone Else Seems to Find It Funny, I'm Not That Drunk But I'm Lonely So I'll Pretend I'm Drunk Enough to Take This Dare, and For The Love of God Don't Ask Me to Kiss That One Guy Who's Really Into Me That I'm Not That Into. _

_You're welcome.  
_

_And now, on with the chapter!  
_

* * *

Dean walks along an open grassy field under a black empty sky. Strange gray light filters down but he can't find its source; there's no sun, no moon, no stars. Just pale grass and dark sky. The Lethe curls around the field and continues on toward the horizon.

Dean follows it.

As he walks, he begins to notice small moving shapes in the distance. People! He quickens his pace and barely even takes note of the white flowers that have begun to bloom along the banks of the river in more and more frequent clumps – flowers that happen to look almost exactly like the ones on that mysterious forgetful island.

By the time he reaches the other people, the flowers have spread from the riverbanks to the long soft grasses of the field, dotting the landscape like dandelions. A crowd of about a dozen quiet people linger by the river, their bodies turned away from Dean and toward each other.

"Hey!" Dean calls, approaching with a wave. "Hey, I'm new here, and I'm looking for some friends of mine."

The people turn toward him, blank-faced and grey. One woman steps forward. "¿Podemos ayudarle?" she says, in a questioning tone.

Dean stops short. "Sooo… there's no chance you guys speak English, huh."

"¿Habla usted español?" the woman asks. "¿O italiano? ¿Portugués?"

"Portugués!" Dean replies, relieved.

"No hablo portugués, pero lo entiendo," she tells him. "Trataré ayudarle."

So they hobble together a conversation between the Portuguese that Dean knows and the Spanish she speaks, and he gathers the following information:

This is the place all the dead come to at first.

There are many more. There are cities.

The river makes you forget. The flowers make you forget. The rain makes you remember.

No one watches them, except at the center, where the castle in the mountain is.

The living should not come here.

Dean thanks the woman for her help, and walks away with a sinking heart. It's just as Bela predicted – finding the others on foot may be impossible, unless he wants to spend centuries doing it. He'll have to go with her methods, which quite frankly worry him. He's anxious not to draw attention to himself, and he has a feeling that casting magic is like sending up a road flare in a place like this.

But then, he doesn't really have a choice.

He stops to kneel in the empty expanse of grass and digs in his satchel, finding his knife and a half-crushed bag of herbs. He sprinkles a circle with the herbs and then slices a small notch on the inside of his right hand, pressing some herbs into the wound. He squeezes his hand into a fist until the blood trickles out and drips inside the circle, and he pictures his brother in his mind, and he whispers, "Sam."

He waits, bleeding hand clenched, heart pounding.

Then a tingle starts in his fingertips and shivers up his hand, drawing him forward. He stands up and follows the sensation, traveling in the direction it leads.

…

He finds Ash first.

He's been following his hand for days, spotting groups of people more and more frequently, eventually coming across sparse wooden huts and entire villages. The second village he walks through seems strangely familiar, something in the way it's laid out… Perhaps modeled after a town in the Carolinas, from Dean's childhood. He's musing on the possibility of stumbling upon Americans when he hears a loud voice behind him declare,

"Well, slap me twice and call me a prostitute. Dean Winchester, in the flesh!"

Dean spins. "Ash?"

Ash walks toward him, shirtless and stringy-haired as ever. "Captain. I get the feelin' that you aren't exactly of the stiff 'n' cold persuasion."

"You'd be right about that," Dean admits.

Ash grins. "Sweet! So you got my smoke signals. Good to know that little endeavor was successful."

"What?" Dean asks in confusion. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"The dream," Ash elaborates. "I've been studying the system here in the Meadows and I just could _not _figure out how to communicate to the living. But then I remembered my godmother Amelie would sometimes have visions and portents in her sleep, so I tried my hand at mind-messaging."

The dream Dean had in Ogygia, stirring him to action. It was a sequence of memories about things Ash had said to him, things Bela had mentioned, ideas about traveling to the land of the dead and the possibility to return suddenly arranged in a rational order.

"You wanted to break out that badly?" Dean asks, a bitter taste in his mouth. "Being dead is that shitty?"

Ash blinks, and tucks his hands into his pockets. "Nah, man. I did it for you."

"_Me?_" Dean can't help but gesture to himself incredulously. "I was doing fine! I had everything handed to me on a silver platter while I let you guys _rot_ down here!"

Ash tilts his head and squints at the ground. "You know what most folks have been doing down here for the last year? They've been eatin'. Sleepin'. Walking around, makin' pleasant conversation, exploring their surroundings but mostly stayin' put. It ain't living, but it's the next best thing. You know what _you've_ been doing for the past year?" He turns his eyes up to Dean and looks at him hard. "The same damn thing."

The truth of the statement leaves Dean's mouth dry.

"Now, I'm just out here with the regular folk in the Meadows," Ash continues. "My death was an accident, sheer dumb luck. But most of your men are in the Elysian Fields, the place where heroes go, because they died in battle defending you. They didn't do it so you could spend the rest of your days good as dead. I figured maybe if you could get Sam back, you could get on with your life and start honoring their memories a little better."

"I want to bring you all back," Dean whispers. "I came back for all of you."

Ash's eyes widen. "You serious?"

"Of course." Dean rubs his jaw. "Logistically, it's a freakin' nightmare, but I came back for everyone I got killed. I owe you guys."

"Dean, I…" Ash clears his throat. "I underestimated you, man. Wow."

Dean smiles a little. "Thanks."

"But you've gotta realize that a lot of them aren't going to want to come," Ash informs him. "Elysium is way better outfitted than the Asphodel Meadows. They've got entire cities down there."

"Well, I've at least gotta give them the option," Dean says. "Right now, I'm tracking Sam, and I'm hoping some of the crew is with him. Once we round everybody up, we'll start working on phase two of the plan." He tightens his satchel and adds, "You wanna come with? Act as my guide?"

"Welll," Ash hedges, "technically speaking, I'm not allowed down there, bein' a lowly victim of a horrific sea monster and all."

Dean grins. "Technically speaking, I'm an affront to the gods for stepping foot on this side of the Acheron. C'mon, Ash. Live dangerously."

Ash grins back. "Living's exactly what I'm hopin' to do. Alright, Cap'n. I'm in."

"I'd shake on it," Dean tells him, "but I've been warned not to touch you guys too much."

Ash shrugs. "Makes sense. Probably some kind of leeching effect. Best to conserve your life force."

They start to walk together in the direction of the Elysian Fields, and Dean mentions, "By the way, I'm evidently immortal."

"Oh yeah? Tight, buddy! How'd you score that?"

"I had it for awhile, but I didn't realize it until Gordon tried to kill me. Back when Cas healed my arm, he kinda overdosed and – oh, by the way, Cas was a Nereid."

"I knew there was somethin' funky with that guy."

"Oh, definitely. He sucked at passing for normal."

"Guess that's what drew you in, huh? You got a thing for a little ex-ot-ic flaaavor –"

"Shut up."

….

They travel through the Asphodel Meadows for a week or so, finding a few others of their crew along the way. None of them decide to join the two – dying once was hard enough, they say. This place isn't so bad, and life at sea was hard. They might as well accept their lot. Dean and Ash shrug and move along.

"You've probably noticed the flowers by now," Ash comments as they walk along the clear, sparkling Lethe. The flowers bloom abundantly there, the banks thick with white blossoms. "Look familiar?"

"Yeah, but they don't have any scent," Dean says. "Those ones on that island had such a strong fragrance. Are these really the same?"

"I've got a theory about that," Ash replies. "You know, one of the easiest ways to trigger a memory is through a scent. These flowers right here are the pure absence of memory; they _can't_ have a scent. They feed on the water of forgetfulness. But I bet if you transplanted one and let it grow in the wild, they'd get a little less forgettable."

Dean considers this. "You know, one of the first people I ran into said the river makes you forget and the rain makes you remember. What's that about?"

"I got a theory about that too!" Ash replies brightly. "According to legend, there's a pond hidden somewhere around here named Mnemosyne, the lake of memory. I haven't found it yet myself, but I think some of it evaporates in the air and comes down in the rain. Doesn't rain very often, though."

"So, if I don't drink the water or eat the flowers, I should be fine," Dean proposes. "I won't start to forget."

"Depends on how long you're here." Ash scratches his arm. "I think after awhile your life just starts to… fade. My own recollections are getting tattered around the edges."

Dean sighs heavily. "I wish I'd come for you sooner."

"It's not your fault. You went through a rough time." Ash's voice is soft, forgiving. "I could see you, you know. I think I saw you better than Anna did."

Dean isn't sure he wants to go down this uncomfortable path, but there's no way of hiding from the truth anymore. He takes a deep breath. "I think she saw what she wanted to see. She didn't want to face up to the fact that it was killing me inside."

Ash nods. "She couldn't see that you'd never feel for her like you felt for him."

Dean doesn't say anything. He just keeps his eyes on the ground ahead of him.

"And when you go to Lisa." Ash looks at Dean, unwilling to let him out of the hot seat. "Are you gonna feel the same way?"

"_Christ,_ Ash, I don't know," Dean retorts angrily, turning on Ash abruptly as a sudden rush of frustration pours through him. "Am I gonna feel this way for the rest of my life? I don't fucking know. Can I even start with somebody new or am I just broken and fucking useless? Cuz that's how I feel! Without Sam I feel like I'm missing a fucking limb and to lose Cas too – I don't know, maybe something inside me just broke. I'm banking on getting Sam back, you don't know how hard I'm banking on that, because without him in my life I can't even fathom raising a child. Hell, I can't even fathom going home! You know what I realized, Ash, what I realized during that year in Ogygia? I've been avoiding England because I know _exactly_ how much of a disappointment I'm going to be to Lisa and her kid. He's gonna look at me and expect to see some heroic sailor father she's painted me to be and instead he's gonna see a sad drunk felon who didn't even know he was born. So you know what? How _I'll_ feel about the situation is pretty much the lowest thing on my list of priorities right now."

Ash stares at him for a minute. "Please, Dean," he finally says, "don't hold back."

"I'm sorry." Dean rubs the back of his neck. "I'm sorry. That's just… been building up for awhile, I guess."

"S'all good." Ash smiles. "It's cathartic, brother. Just remember to breathe once in awhile."

Finally they crest over the edge of a rolling hill, and the ground drops into a sharp verdant valley. Down in the valley are thousands – no, hundreds of thousands of gray buildings sandwiched close together, narrow brown streets radiating from the city center. The wide Lethe runs through the city and several broad bridges have been built over it; enormous fountains visible in the city square seem to have diverted some of its waters. The gray light that shines through the Meadows seems a little brighter here, though the sky is just as black.

Dean's hand tingles sharply.

"Welcome to Elysium," Ash announces. "Finding Sam should be as easy as finding a needle in a needle stack."

"No, he's close," Dean says. "I can feel it."

And then suddenly the tingling stops.

"Hey!"

Dean and Ash turn.

Sam is behind them, coming up the hill with a walking staff in hand. He puts his hand up to shade his eyes. "Don't I know you guys?"

Dean's heart stops completely, and then beats again in a rush of adrenaline and hope, new life surging through him. "Sammy," he breathes. Then he shakes himself and shouts, "Sam! It's me, Dean!"

Sam approaches with a wary look. "Sounds familiar, but I'm afraid I can't place you…"

"Your _brother_," Dean insists, his voice getting hoarse and his eyes stinging. He wants to reach up and shake him by the shoulders, but he knows he shouldn't touch. "I'm your brother, Sammy, don't you remember me?"

Sam squints at him. "My brother?"

"I was four when you were born," Dean says. "I – I carried you in my arms when Yellow Eyes burnt our house down. I taught you how to shoot a musket. I sold myself into _slavery_ to save your life –"

"It's okay, Dean," Ash says quietly. "It'll come to him."

"I came to you when your wife died," Dean continues, unable to stop himself. "I promised you I'd bring you back to England in a few months. I lied." He can't help the dampness in his eyes, the roughness in his throat. "When – when we were kids one time I locked you in the brig and said I wouldn't let you out until you swore on the bible that you'd give me your dinner for a week. When Dad died, you were the one who stayed by my bedside and insisted I was going to fucking live, and it's only because of you that I did. I – I – I'm your _brother_, Sam, I…."

Sam's eyes start to widen. "Dean," he says softly. Then he puts his hand in his hair and shouts, "DEAN! HOLY SHIT!" He steps forward and reaches his arms out -

Dean darts back. "Don't touch me, it's bad mojo, I can't, but I swear to God I'll fucking hug you later and not even tease you about it."

"You're alive!" Sam exclaims. "You're down here and you're alive!"

"Hey, go ahead and scream that a little louder!" Dean barks. "I think there's some people in China who didn't catch that."

"We're on the down low," Ash informs Sam. "Strictly espionage."

"Well, I expect to get the whole story." Sam's eyes are brimming and he smiles widely. "Jesus, Dean, you're so completely insane."

Dean smirks. "Trust me, Sammy. You don't know the half of it yet."


	29. Chapter 29

A/N: _Oh man, you guys have no idea how hard I have scrambled to have this update ready for you! Thank you for all the reviews and I love you all so very much. I'm supposed to be doing other things right now, so I won't say much, except please review and I hope you enjoy the chapter and I promise to update again soon. _

_Oh, and I forgot to mention last chapter that I'm really sorry about any confusion you may have had about the Dean-immortality development. Some people were confused and I realize the revelation lacked clarity. Basically, when Gordon stabs him and he doesn't die, Dean realizes that Cas's heavy-handed attempt to heal his shoulder resulted in him being immortal. Not that he can't be killed (much as Gordon the immortal was killed), just that he can't be killed by ordinary stuff and he certainly won't grow old or die of old age or any of those natural causes. _

_Enjoy the chapter!_

* * *

"I notice you were walkin' up to the city, same as we were," Ash tells Sam as the three of them walk down towards the Elysian Fields. "Where were you coming from?"

"Well, I've been in the Asphodel Meadows," Sam answers slowly. "I've been looking for… someone…. Someone I can't remember right now."

"Jo?" Dean asks. "We're looking for her too. She should be in Elysium, though, right? I mean, she died in battle."

Sam lowers his face, avoiding Dean's eyes. "She probably is in Elysium. I'm looking for someone else. I'll remember soon."

Dean stops short. He knows who Sam's been looking for. "Sam," he says quietly, "I've got some bad news."

Ash and Sam stop, and Ash looks between the two brothers. "I'm gonna give you two a moment," he says, and he walks a short distance away and starts humming loudly to himself.

Sam's eyebrows are furrowed upward in concern. "What is it, Dean?"

Dean wipes a hand down his face. "You've been looking for Jess, haven't you?"

Sam's eyes widen. "Jess! Yes! I've been searching for her ever since I got here. How could I forget that..." He runs a hand through his hair. "Oh my God, Dean, this is perfect. We can use your spell to find her and bring her back with us!"

"Sam." Dean takes a big breath. "We can't bring Jess back."

Sam stares blankly.

His mouth twists downward.

"Dean, what are you saying?" he demands. "Of course we can. She's no different than any of the other –"

"She's been dead for seven years," Dean cuts in. "Her family, her friends, they all came to her funeral. What are you gonna tell them? That she was faking it? That she was kidnapped? They _saw_ her dead body. And that's not even touching on what she'd go through. Seven years down here that felt like who knows how many, and she'll have no one to talk to about it, no one who even _understands_ what she's been through except for you…" He shakes his head. "Having to lie, for the _rest of her life_, and probably no one will ever really believe her. She'll feel so isolated and outcast... It's not fair to do that to her."

"What. Are you _talking_ about," Sam growls, his chin jutting forward and tears coming to his eyes. "It's not fair to _leave_ her down here, to leave her when I should've saved her –"

"You couldn't have saved her, Sam!" Dean interrupts. "She died of scarlet fever, there was nothing you could do! You've got to accept that."

"She caught it from one of my patients." Sam blinks quickly and looks away. "She wouldn't have died if she hadn't been married to me. I've always known that. And now I finally have a chance to set it right-"

"So that's what this is about!" Dean rounds on him sharply. "You want to drag her up to the living world to fulfill your own selfish fantasy of redeeming yourself –"

"And what exactly," Sam snarls, "do you think _you're_ doing?"

Dean flounders.

Sam presses his mouth tight. "Give me _one_ good reason why bringing her back is any different from bringing me back, and I'll let her go."

Dean swallows, and looks Sam in the eye. "Because you're not the same man she married."

Sam's face freezes.

"You've changed so much since I came and got you from England, Sam," Dean says, a tinge of guilt leaking into his voice. "I – I know it's my fault, but… You're not the same person anymore. You've been through so much shit, and… You don't even _look_ the same. You were this twiggy little kid, and now you're… you're not the man she knows. And maybe she's not the same either, you know? Maybe she's not the same girl whose memory you're chasing."

Sam looks away, and his eyes redden.

"I'm not bringing back Mom or Dad." Dean rotates his jaw and tries to hold an even keel. "You don't know how difficult that was to decide."

Sam closes his eyes, and a few tears leak out.

Dean sighs, a dull ache in his gut. "Deep down, you can feel it. You know it isn't right."

Sam nods, his eyes still closed.

"I'm sorry." Dean wants so badly to put a hand on his shoulder. "I'm really sorry, Sam."

Sam doesn't say anything. He just lifts his walking stick and starts walking toward Elysium.

Dean follows.

Ash starts and sprints after them. "Hey!" he calls. "We back on the trail? Can't ditch me that easy!"

….

Jo Harvelle is satisfied with her death.

She stays in the city of Elysium, where all the dead heroes reside, on the outskirts near the juncture of Lethe and the howling river Cocytus. She occupies her days with carving small trinkets out of the soft grey wood that grows there and fashioning the branches into furniture. She wasn't very good at it at first, but she's improved greatly. She knows how to soak the wood in hot water to make it bend, and how to dry it in the colorless light of what passes for day.

She is content to drink from the Lethe and eat its sugary flowers, putting her past behind her. She avoids the rain and sleeps indoors whenever she can, in a little abandoned hut. But today, she is not so lucky.

Jo is working outside, sitting by the riverside and struggling with a wicker basket. She almost doesn't hear the unending wailing of the Cocytus anymore, she's grown so accustomed to it. One of the wickers snaps again and snaps sharply across her hand, and it's as she's swearing and tossing the basket away from her in frustration that the first heavy drops land on her skin.

"Shit," Jo breathes, wiping the tingling droplets from her arm. "Shit, no." She scrambles to her feet and runs in the direction of home as memory seeps into her mind.

She can't outrun the rain.

It's spattering, splashing, soaking her now, and as she crumples to her knees and cries out in agony, a great tortured chorus rises up in the city of Elysium as thousands are struck by the force of their flooding emotions.

She remembers everything, all at once.

She remembers being born, tasting ice cream, sleeping in her mother's arms. She remembers pretty dresses and giggling friends whispering about the handsome porter and her father laughing. She remembers stepping into the salt sea air and gazing out to sea. She remembers her wedding, the overwhelming joy and teary excitement, the purple flowers in her hair, the awestruck look on her grooms face, the tender way he undressed her in the dark of the night, the trembling newness of their love. She remembers the pain tearing through her insides and the dark blood wicking up her petticoats. She remembers the tiny lumpen shape with fingers, the smallest fingers, and holding it in her hand. She remembers the next, and the next, and the next, and the next. She remembers the paleness of his face. She remembers the knowing resignation in the doctor's eyes. She remembers the crying, and the ache in her soul, and the rings under her eyes, and the numbness of her body.

She remembers looking at herself in the mirror and cutting her hair, knowing that she could never turn back. She remembers the smoky tavern where she signed her name. She remembers her first night at sea, lying curled in her hammock and nearly shaking with the terror of being discovered. She remembers the hardship, the secrecy, the lying, the bullying, the hours of exhausting menial labor, the callouses, the bruises, the loneliness. She remembers boarding the Impala. She remembers the shocking terror of being discovered and every anxiety-wracked day after that until she believed his promise not to reveal her. She remembers walking into the captain's cabin and the silent brokenness in the lines of his body slumped at the table, a brokenness she recognizes from seeing firsthand in the mirror. She remembers touching his cheek, and him looking up at her, and her not saying anything and that being all she needed to say. She remembers life becoming easier. She remembers the months of his disappearance and the waiting in Brazil, the uncertainty, the fear that he was truly dead. She remembers his triumphant return and the battle to escape, and the strange passenger they left with, and the vow to return to England.

She remembers getting caught. She remembers the menacing looks of some and the hungry gazes of others, but most of all the way that Sam looked at her like a person and talked to her like person and treated her like a person. She remembers the island of the lotuses, Bela's island, and all the sweet easy moments between the madness when she looked up at Sam and saw him smiling back, and the way his arms fit around her perfectly, and the way he laughed. She remembers the rooftop and the soft pleading in his voice and the way his eyelashes felt on her skin and the moment of _almost_. She remembers setting sail and stepping forward in his defense and Gordon yanking her back, a knife pressed to her throat, and she remembers Sam watching with wide-eyed anger, and she remembers the knife slicing through her and cutting out her voice and breath and life, and tumbling to the ground while Sam screams her name and whispering _Sam, Sam_, and reaching for him but she can't reach him.

She remembers waking up in a dark black swamp and being lead to this grey city. She remembers Sam arriving and running to him and him looking down at her with hollow eyes, and saying to her, "I've got to look for Jess." She remembers him asking her to come with him and shaking her head no. And she remembers watching him go, and knowing that she would never fit, and knowing this was the end, and knowing this was death, and walking down to the river and wading until she forgets everything.

She remembers all of this in one crippling instant, and she cowers on the ground with her fingers digging into the earth and sobs.

The rain patters down into the wet brown dirt.

"Jo."

She looks up, choking, blinking through the rain.

He's walking towards her, a figure out of the haze, and she knows who it is just from that one word. She stands up uncertainly; she's never hallucinated before.

"Jo." He's soaked through, his gray clothes plastered to his bulky frame, his hair clinging to his neck, water dribbling from his chin. "Please, say something."

She puts her hand to his arm, surprised at its solidity, and shivers. "I hate the rain, Sam," she croaks. "I've tried so hard to forget you."

He pushes one hand under her wet, tangled hair and slides it along the back of her neck. "I tried too," he says. "I was looking for Jess."

Jo swallows and trembles again, less and less sure that this is a dream, and asks, "Did you find her?"

"No." Sam's mouth turns upward in a bitter smile. "And I don't think I ever will."

The rain continues to pour down around them, and Jo squeezes her eyes shut and squeezes her fingers in his sodden sleeves and cries, "I'm so angry at you for leaving!"

"I asked you to come with!" he answers, pleading in his voice. "I _wanted_ you to come with!"

"I know." She throws her arms around him and hugs him tightly. "I know you did."

They stand in the rain, holding each other, awash in memory and unwilling to let each other go.

…..

"You think we should try braving it?" Dean asks, pulling back the coverlet.

"Nah," Ash answers, gazing out the window at the rain. "Sam'll find her. The rain'll just make you miserable. Just try and get some shut-eye."

Dean kind of hates letting Sam out of his sight and if it were up to him he'd have his brother on a leash for the rest of eternity, but he understands it'll probably be a personal moment between him and Jo, so he allows it. For now. He is tired, after all.

So far they'd been sleeping on the ground whenever Dean felt like it; after all, there was no sunrise or sunset, just unending perpetual dusk. But once the squall had started they ducked inside an abandoned gray cabin for shelter, and the little empty house had a few beds. Dean wondered who had built it, or why, since as far as he could tell the dead didn't _need_ to sleep.

Maybe it was simply comforting to maintain the habit.

Ash wanders out of the room to explore the rest of the house, and Dean climbs into bed. Good a time as any to sleep. The pounding rain on the roof creates a rhythm that lulls him to sleep, like so many nights at sea drifting into unconsciousness to the beating of the waves…

The window creaks.

Dean's eyes snap open. He's facing the wall, and a long shadow falls from the other side of the room.

Someone slowly slides the window shut and the shadow shortens, the sound of bare feet gingerly padding on the wood paneled floor.

Dean reaches for his knife, then realizes he doesn't have one tucked under the pillow.

The feet stop. Soft, quiet breathing. Dripping.

Dean whirls around and shouts, "ALRIGHT, WHADDYA WANT, YOU'RE FRICKIN' DEAD, YOU –"

and he stops short.

Standing there, staring wide-eyed, soaked to the bone,

is Castiel.

They stare at each other wordlessly.

Dean can't even blink. It's Castiel, black-haired and blue-eyed and pale-skinned and looking like a drowned rat, sure, but still handsome as hell and totally shocked and he's got stubble on his chin and Dean thinks he likes that but what the _fuck_ what the _fuck_ what the _fuck?_

"How?" Cas finally asks.

"I could ask the same thing," Dean breathes. "I thought you were a Nereid."

"Poseidon turned me human," Cas answers, as though it's obvious. "Completely human."

And it's so mind-bendingly simple that Dean laughs.

"How are you here?" Cas asks, staring at him still. "You're alive!"

"Cas," Dean says, and the word sounds so good in his mouth that he says it again. "Cas, it's a long story."

"I have time," Cas says, with a small smirk. "I'm dead."

And that's it.

Dean doesn't even care.

He steps forward and grabs Cas by the front of his soggy shirt and kisses him so fiercely that he can hear the breath knock out of Cas with a soft _unf_ and doesn't stop kissing him until he's absolutely certain that he's one hundred percent not dreaming.

Then he pulls back and looks at Cas's face, and Cas is just gazing at him with these big round eyes and touching his face.

"What?" Dean asks.

"Are you real?" Cas asks. "Is this real?"

Dean laughs softly and kisses him quickly and says, "You better fucking believe it."


	30. Chapter 30

A/N: _Oh, my phabulous pheasants! Every time I get ahead in updates I get delayed and fall behind again. I wanted to make this update extra long but by the time I got finished with the main chunk, I elected to give you a chapter that was shorter and sooner instead. Thanks for all the reviews, because trust me - they really do make my day brighter. Your reward for reviewing this chapter is..._

_Drumroll please..._

_YOUR VERY OWN SUPERNATURAL TEAR ABSORBER (TM)! Too many nights we weep in front of the television or computer screen, cursing Kripke's name and pondering our own sick unwillingness to break the cycle of abuse as our faces grow ever soggier. NOW CarrotCorp offers the solution! The Supernatural Tear Absorber (TM) is a stylish, comfortable eyemask that soaks up your pain-juice and keeps your face fresh! Now your family and friends never have to find out about your inner fangirl agony. No more awkward questions! No more worried glances! No more somber interventions and attempts to reintroduce you into normal society! Order your Supernatural Tear Absorber (TM) today, and happy crying. _

_Sort of._

_Finally, there are parts of this story that I've spent hours envisioning weeks before I ever get to writing them. There are scenes that I planned when I first conceived the plot and knew what this story was going to be about. And then there are times when the characters step forward, yank on the brakes and go in their own direction, doing and saying and FEELING things that I never anticipated. This chapter is one of those times. If you like it, don't thank me - thank these characters. They're the ones who wrote it. _

_And if you don't like it, HEY IT'S NOT MY FAULT THESE GUYS GET OUT OF HAND SOMETIMES OKAY.  
_

_Enjoy the chapter!_

* * *

Castiel has no words for what has happened.

He watches Dean as he speaks with Ash, Sam and Jo, listens to what he says, but he doesn't hear it. He can't concentrate on anyone or anything else. He simply watches Dean's face and takes in every tiny movement, every shadow, every infinitesimal detail.

He thinks perhaps this is shock.

When he died, Castiel was surprised as any to find himself in Hades' kingdom, much less Elysium. Jo was there, blank-faced and quiet; Henrickson and the others elected to move farther into the city where death felt more like life. Castiel stayed with Jo, knowing that she would not ask anything of him. He felt he had nothing more to give. He kept to himself mostly and she kept to herself mostly, and they got along fine except the rainy nights when their memories returned and neither could look at each other, overcome by guilt and shame and grief.

Eventually they slid into something like companionship. Castiel was thankful for the absence of sex in the afterlife, the absence of that awkward negotiation of comfort and need. Instead, he and Jo could cohabitate easily and without embarrassment. When it rained they took to holing up in her room and eating flowers from her secret stores, warding off memory with pleasant numbness. He thought nothing of climbing in her window tonight, shivering with the onslaught of damp emotion, his mind reeling with all his moments of weakness and selfishness and failing –

And then as he'd approached the bed, he'd realized it was not Jo lying there.

Now he's staring at Dean, Dean Winchester, Dean – the man who changed his life entirely, the man he sacrificed that life for.

In the underworld.

Alive.

Castiel wants to drag him out of here forcibly and push him back into life. He wants to yank him by the collar and fly him to England, drop him at Lisa's dinner table and shackle him there; he wants to hide him far away from any ocean or river or body of water larger than a puddle and cage him, safe and out of harm's way. Most of all, he wants to be angry and fierce and cold and unrelenting until Dean understands that he made a very big mistake coming here and he should never do it again and he is in no way a hero for throwing away everything his comrades gave to him with their deaths in a moment of impulsive selfish masculine bravado.

He wants to do all that.

Instead, Castiel watches him speak and argue and flush and he thinks, _Watching you will never be enough._

Ash admonishes Dean for touching Castiel and informs him that he has "dimmed." Dean argues about whether or not that is significant, but Ash is still adamant. Jo and Sam return soaked by the downpour and Sam is equally dismayed, shooting furtive dark glances at Castiel. Jo looks weary, haggard almost, ravaged by her stay in the rain.

Dean is still shiny and bright in Castiel's eyes, glowing and warm. His skin is golden, his eyes that shifting shade of green, and Castiel can pinpoint the nearly invisible freckles across the bridge of his nose. He is _alive_.

"Dean," Castiel blurts in the midst of their heated discussion, "You were sleeping."

The others stare at him.

"Yes, Cas," Dean answers. Dean has been saying his name often and Castiel never tires of it. "I was sleeping earlier. I hardly see what that has to do with transdimensional travel…"

"Do you need more sleep?" Castiel asks. "You should stay rested."

Ash chews his bottom lip and half-smiles at Dean. "Yeah, Dean," he agrees. "Gotta get your beauty sleep, eat your vitamins, remember to look both ways crossing the street –"

"I'm fine," Dean cuts in. He glances sidelong at Castiel, half in irritation. "I'm fine."

Castiel feels the others watching him, and he feels his own ire balling up inside of him. "Good," he says. "Since the other four people in this room gave their lives to protect you, it would be a shame if you died now out of careless neglect."

Dean's cheeks redden.

Castiel narrows his eyes slightly. "Or perhaps that doesn't matter to you. You didn't seem to take it under consideration while embarking on this heretical journey."

"Look, Cas…." Ash scratches his head and scuffs the floor. "I gotta take some of the heat for this. I gave him the idea to come down here."

Castiel turns on him, clenching his fists and straining to control his anger. "What would possess you to suggest such – lunacy?"

"He was a dead man walking! A zombie!" Ash protests. "You saw him, didn't you? Wasting away on that island with the foxy sea-witch?"

It is Castiel's turn to flush and look away. "Of course I didn't," he mutters. "Why would I punish myself like that?"

There is a moment of awkward silence in which no one knows what to say.

Finally Jo steps in. "The rain stopped," she says. "I'm going back outside for a walk."

Castiel follows her and is relieved when Dean does not.

….

Dean and Ash spend the hours planning an exit strategy. Sam acts as a conduit between the two, translating Ash's theoretical knowledge when Dean doesn't quite parse it. Jo helps from the sidelines and tosses in ideas when they become quagmired, suggesting various alternative solutions.

Castiel watches and listens.

They don't realize yet the foolishness of their scheming, the strength of the gods they plan to subvert. They don't understand the full implications of Dean's actions. They've never glimpsed the black pits of Tartarus, the unique and sadistic tortures devised for its inmates, the depth and length of its eternity. Castiel knows. He also knows none of it will dissuade them.

Eventually they reach a lull, a stumbling block in their plans.

Castiel takes the opportunity.

"This is pointless," he says.

The other four turn to look at him, surprise and consternation in their faces.

"There's no merit in meticulous planning," he continues. "If we succeed, it will be on the virtue of our complete brazen defiance and the gods' inability to predict such insane behavior. Schemes will come to nothing. Our only weapons are shamelessness and sheer luck."

Dean smirks and jerks his chin sideways. "Then good thing I've got plenty of both."

A few minutes later the meeting breaks up and Dean steps outside to get some fresh air. Castiel follows him a moment after, and when he comes outside Dean is waiting for him, a studied blankness to his face.

The gray light of the underworld is grayer over here, the shadows slightly darker. Dean leans against the side of the cabin with crossed arms. "Are you angry at me, Cas?"

Castiel blinks. "Yes. Why wouldn't I be?"

Dean exhales slowly. "Oh, I don't know. Because we had a thing, and I'm currently working on bringing you back to life, and you were pretty happy to see me a few hours ago."

"Of course I was happy to see you," Castiel retorts. "I loved you."

And Dean's breath sucks in sharply and his eyes shine as though he's been struck. "So it's past tense, then?"

"I'm _dead,_ Dean!" Castiel fires back hoarsely, on the edge of his control, a hot metal rod bent to the point of breaking. "The dead can't love. We can only remember."

Dean just gazes at him with glittering eyes, shadows across his face and his arms crossed tight over his chest.

Castiel looks to the ground and tries to gather himself. "I don't want you to remember. I want you to live, Dean, more than anything I've ever wanted. And... I am… _afraid_ that you don't care. You don't care if you live or die."

Dean steps closer, uncrossing his arms. "You know why I don't _care?_" he asks incredulously. "I don't care because just about everyone I've ever known is dead! Cas, if I can't bring you guys back then my life is just an ugly parade of loneliness stretching on forever ahead of me and I can't – I _won't_ live that!"

"Dean," Cas whispers, the ache that is growing in his heart so familiar now. "Even here in the underworld, you still…. You gamble. You risked your life… to _kiss _me. Do you understand how reckless that is?"

Dean leans in close, so close Castiel can feel the radiating warmth of his body. "Every damn time," he answers.

Castiel closes his eyes, and wills himself not to reach out.

They stand like that for awhile; silent, centimeters apart, just breathing.

Dean clears his throat. "Cas, this kind of shit keeps happening to us. Every time we get close to something good, destiny or the gods or whoever throw some other fucking roadblock in our way."

Castiel bows his head just a little. "Perhaps we should take the hint."

"_No_." Dean's voice is emphatic. "No. You know why? Because the more it happens, the more I'm convinced that it's exactly what we need." Castiel can almost hear the determined set of his jaw. "You know why the universe keeps tearing us apart? Because we are fucking _dangerous_ together. You defied Poseidon because of me. I became _immortal_ because of you. You put the two of us together and we're a threat to the powers that be, and if that's not a goddamn turn-on for you then I don't know what is."

A smile tugs at the corner of Castiel's mouth.

"Now this is the last time I want to have this conversation," Dean tells him, putting a hand to the side of the cabin. "I know I haven't been the most consistent guy but I'm trying to change that, so that we don't have to hash and rehash this over and over. I've been struggling with this a lot over the past few days and I've come to a decision, and I'm going to stand by it. No matter what happens. Okay?"

Castiel looks into his eyes. "And what decision is that?"

"You and me." Dean looks evenly back at him. "It's going to be difficult as fuck, but I want it. I'm serious. I'll do whatever it takes to make it work. Finding you here – this is my second chance, and I'm not going to waste it. I want you, Cas, and I'm not going to let you go without a fight."

"And what about my decision?" Castiel asks quietly. "Don't I have a say?"

Dean's adam's apple bobs. "Do you – what's your say?"

Castiel closes his eyes again, and sighs.

He can feel the quivering tension of Dean's body, the burning focus of his gaze, and he imagines telling this man that he should do the responsible thing and never speak to him again.

Fuck responsibility.

"Someday soon, when I'm alive again," Castiel says, "I'll give you an answer. But for now, know that I'm fighting too." He turns his eyes back up to Dean and lets the full weight of his reply sink in. "I won't surrender you until they chain me down in the bowels of Tartarus. You have my word."

Dean's mouth turns up, and his eyes gleam bright, and his breath catches in his throat. "Cas," he says. "Did we just agree to go steady?"

"No." Castiel presses his hand to the wall of the cabin, fingers splayed out next to Dean's, and he gazes at the two hands side by side. "We've agreed to trust each other."

Dean looks at their hands. "Funny," he says, "how long that took us."

Castiel smiles softly. "I'm not easy to trust."

Dean ducks his head. "Well, no. But I'm also suspicious as hell, so. It goes both ways."

They stand there silently, looking at their hands and pretending the distance between them isn't so large and wide and impassable.

"Should we go back inside?" Castiel asks.

Dean exhales slowly, and twitches his fingers ever so slightly toward Castiel's.

"Sure," he finally says. "Don't want 'em to start worrying. Sam might come out here and dump a bucket of water on us."

They walk back inside, and the others don't say anything. Still, when they begin planning again and Castiel offers his knowledge of Persephone's store-room, Dean enthusiastically latches onto the idea, and Castiel notices Sam and Ash exchanging a knowing glance and Jo's mouth curling up in a smile.


	31. Chapter 31

A/N: _My pretties. Oh, my pretties. _

_This chapter is more - MORE than twice as long as usual. That's why it took so long. It's a sequence that I didn't want to break up into separate chapters, so you get it all in one chunk. I've realized that pacing-wise I sometimes cut off at inconvenient times because I just want to get something posted, and I forced myself not to do that here. I typed and typed and typed and kept going, sustaining myself on your wonderful comments. I hope you like it, and seriously - _

_please review. _

_It will make me so happy. _

_Thanks, and have at it._

_P.S. If you're confused about any Greek character's identity, don't worry. I think I'll just make a list and put them all at the end. For now, just enjoy guessing which Supernatural character you think they are!_

* * *

Just beyond the city of Elysium, to the east of the Cocytus and west of fiery Phlegethon, a dark mountain rises out of the mist and converges with the black sky. In the heart of this mountain lies the palace of Hades and Persephone, the god of wealth and his captive bride, and they compensate for the lack of sunlight with precious metals and polished jewels. The palace is rich and sumptuous and ridiculously ornate, but most importantly, it is guarded.

The pirate band is preparing to break in.

"No, I… I don't think I'll join you," Henrickson says as the group huddles around a small campfire. They've traveled farther north and it's colder and foggier here, more like the place where they summoned Pamela. "Don't get me wrong, I'd love to live again, it's just… I don't want to take that risk. If you're caught. They'll imprison you for eternity."

"We know," Dean says. The shadows under his eyes have grown darker, and his skin is sallow and pale. "But I understand. No hard feelings."

Andy pushes his hands toward the fire and glances over his shoulder. "You don't think they can hear us, do you?"

Jo stares at the mountain in the distance. "It's like Castiel said," she tells him. "We're putting all our money on the idea that no one's pulled something like this before."

"Well, good luck, Captain," Henrickson says, nodding to Dean.

Dean nods back.

It's after Dean goes to sleep – a more and more frequent occurrence for him – that Sam says what they've all been thinking. "We need to hurry."

Castiel bows his head. "I'm sorry," he mutters. "I didn't know it would have this effect."

"No, it's not just from you." Ash sighs and scratches his head. "You just speeded it up a little. He's not supposed to be down here, it's not natural. The ground just leeches energy out of him."

Andy watches Dean's sleeping form, curled up away from the fire. "But he's immortal, right?"

Ash smiles grimly. "For the moment. If he were a normal fella… He'd probably be dead by now."

They all watch the fire silently until Dean wakes up again, and prepare themselves for the riskiest venture of their careers.

…..

When they arrive at the enormous iron gates ringed by black-armored guards, they waste no time getting to the business at hand.

First up: infiltration.

"Excuse me," Ash says, a crudely-made lute slung over his shoulder. "I have an engagement with her most royal royalness, her majesty Persephone the Benevolent."

"Identify yourself," the foremost guard intones mechanically, his voice tinny through the helmet.

Ash swings his lute over in explanation. "_I_… am Amyclas. The musician. This is my musical retinue. We take our craft… very seriously."

Three other scraggly, dirty pirates stand rigidly and eye the guard derisively. Jo purses her lips. Andy smiles meekly and waves his panflute, while Castiel stares stone-faced with a tambourine in hand.

The guard's neckplates creak, and his helmet slit turns from Ash to Castiel and back to Ash. "You do not have an appointment," he says.

Ash scoffs and rolls his eyes. "Take another look. Don't you recognize us? We are known as the Lacedaemon Lute Legion. We were requested by the Queen of the Underworld herself. We are… very skilled."

The guard lifts his visor. Just as the others suspected, red glowing eyes squint at Ash; the palace guards are not dead warriors, but merely constructions, golems. "Well," he says slowly. "I will escort you inside." He turns to open the gate.

Jo mouths _Wow_ to Sam and Ash smirks. This might be easier than they anticipated.

The guard, not having been granted much in the way of critical thinking skills and _clearly_ untrained for this scenario, brandishes his sword and brings through the gray flagstone pathway and up to the marble steps, through a large stone entryway cut into the mountain itself. The black doors, covered in a veneer of polished ebony, swing open with the whining creak of disuse.

The pirates enter.

This fortress is markedly different from Bela's mansion. Where Bela had white open spaces and clean angles and natural lighting, all the handiwork of a careful architect, Hades's palace seems almost accidental. The foyer is a hollowed-out cavern of basalt, lit by flickering orange torchlight, and the floor slopes downward towards a dark low tunnel that recedes into blackness. Somewhere water drips, and the sound echoes through the cavern.

"Well," Jo says. "I guess we should be glad they cleared out the stalagmites."

…..

**Outside the Palace**

"He seriously… he seriously just left his post to escort them in?" Dean asks from behind a skeletal tree.

Sam peers around his own tree through the mist. "Uhh… yup. Yes, he did."

Dean steps out from his hiding place. Sam can't help but notice the darkness of his eyes and the thinness of his cheeks, but he tries not to think about it. Dean rubs his hands together and grins. "Alright, Sammy. It's game time."

…

**In a Dark Corridor**

"I'm surprised you haven't heard of us," Ash remarks, a slightly offended tone to his voice. "We were quite popular in Lacedaemon several centuries ago. We popularized the lute, which previously was considered inferior to the goat-bladder."

It is impossible to read the guard's expression behind his helmet, but his neck plates creak as his head tilts slightly. He pokes Ash with his sword. "Keep walking," he commands.

Jo shoots the guard a glare, and then puts her hand to Ash's shoulder. "Don't walk too fast, Amyclas," she warns him. "You don't want to strain yourself before our performance."

"Yeah," Andy chimes in. "Without your lute, man. We got nothing."

The group walks more slowly, taking their sweet time, while the guard emits a barely-audible sigh.

…

**Past the Gate**

Dean and Sam walk briskly and purposefully toward the palace.

"Dean," Sam mutters under his breath. "Dean, we've been spotted."

Two black-armored guards are walking across the courtyard, swords in hand.

"Walk faster," Dean hisses. "We'll lose them inside!"

They stride quickly toward the gleaming ebony doors as metal clanks faster and faster behind them, until they slam the doors open and break into a dead run. The guards shout behind them, curses and commands and threats. Dean and Sam bolt across the cavern and dart into the narrow hallway, which tumbles down a steep staircase and leads to five more hallways.

"Like an ant colony!" Dean gasps, already short of breath.

Sam yanks his arm and drags him through the doorway to the right, slamming it behind them. They run down another torchlit hallway and careen down winding stairs, gambling everything on that heavy armor and Ash's ability to entertain.

….

Ash, Andy, Jo and Castiel reach a large open room floored with black and brown checkered marble. In the center of the room is a large table set with rich foods and dark full goblets, set on a thick black tablecloth that hangs all the way to the floor; to the left a giant fireplace crackles, bright-hot and enormous like the bellows of some hidden forge. A door at the other end of the room is manned by a small grey creature, who upon spotting the visitors opens the door and scurries away.

"This is the reception hall," the guard intones. "You will wait here until the queen receives you."

Ash eyes the guard coldly. "You aren't the one who will be introducing us, will you?"

The guard stares at him silently.

"Fine." He waves his hand at Castiel. "Tyrtaeus, you'll have to do it. This brigand knows nothing of taste."

Castiel frowns and raises his tambourine.

"I know." Ash pinches the bridge of his nose. "I know, you'll be on double duty. The price we pay for touring, I suppose… Oh, alright. Cleta can introduce us. She's the singer, after all."

Jo groans.

"Now, we do have a question for you, Mister…." Ash trails off.

"Lycurgus," the guard supplies.

"Lycurgus." Ash smiles with disdain. "How… common. Anyhow, I would like to know what you think of the etched design on the face of my lute. Cleta thinks it could be improved with gold leaf but Tyrtaeus thinks that would look vulgar."

The guard's helmet lowers slightly toward the lute.

"Take a closer look," Ash suggests. "You may want to flip up your visor…."

…

"Do you have – any idea where we are?" Dean pants.

"Well." Sam pushes his hair back and tries to catch his breath. "This appears to be – some sort of – spinning room."

The room is lit by one tiny, nearly-empty lamp, but it's enough. They can see the stacks of wool, the spinning wheels, the bundles of yarn lumped in baskets. In the far corner Sam thinks he can make out a loom.

"Sammy, I can't…" Dean slides to the floor, his face sweaty and pallid. "I shouldn't've come with you, I'm slowing you down…"

"It's okay, we're fine." Sam kneels down next to him, wishing he could check his pulse, feel his forehead for a fever. "Besides, you couldn't go with Ash and them. You'd stick out like a sore thumb. You're alive."

Dean grins, an empty morbid grin. "Not so much anymore. Now I'm more like… death warmed over."

"Dean." Sam takes a deep breath. "Don't talk like that. Not now. Okay?"

Dean pauses, licks his lips and nods.

"Now come on." Sam stands up. "We've got a lot of ground to cover."

…..

Three armored guards burst into the reception hall, a cacophony of metal and labored panting. "Lycurgus," one of them grunts. "There has been a security breach!"

Lycurgus's helmet turns from the band to his fellow guards.

"Stay – stay with us," Jo suggests. "I'm sure it's nothing."

"Security breach," Andy says. "That could be, like, a stray possum, right?"

"It is urgent," the other guard insists. "Intruders, headed below!"

Their guard considers for one last, hesitant moment.

Finally he walks towards the other guards and follows them out the door and down the hall.

…..

Sam and Dean burst into a room full of boxes and chests and frantically start pawing through them. "They're supposed be marked," Dean rasps. "None of these are fucking marked!"

"There – there are symbols on this one." Sam tosses a small locked box to him. "Can you read them?"

"Greek," Dean spits. "I can't remember any fucking Greek."

"Try!" Sam insists. "_Think!_"

Dean stares at the symbols on the box.

_ύπνος _

_ýpnos_

_hypnos_

"Sleep," he says. "It says sleep."

Sam grabs the box and throws it to the side. "Then we keep looking."

…..

The throne room is smaller than the crew anticipated, smaller actually than the reception hall. Still, the enormous expanse of black velvet carpeting is significant, and the walls are hung with intricate tapestries. At the far end of the room, a raised platform holds two polished wooden chairs – the throne of the underworld.

The grey furry creature leads them in, and then scurries back out. The pirates look around the empty room nervously.

A small door slides open, and a woman emerges.

She is short and blonde and young, but she carries herself straight, and her almond-shaped eyes are dark and sharp. Her fingernails are painted black. Her dress is soft gray and simple, and as she walks to the throne it doesn't rustle at all – completely silent.

Queen Persephone.

She sits in the throne and sighs. "So who are you guys supposed to be?"

Jo steps forward. "Your highness," she begins, "we humble musicians hail from –"

Persephone rolls her eyes. "Look, I didn't order a candygram, so the fact that you guys are even in here is a nifty hat trick. Just tell me what you want and get it over with."

"We're the Lacedaemon Lute Legion." Ash swings his lute forward. "And honestly, your highness, we just want a chance to play."

Andy clutches his panflute nervously. "This is sorta like, the gig of our lives," he agrees. "Or, our deaths, I mean."

She snorts. "You three hobo-buskers seriously consider yourselves a band?"

Jo, Ash, and Andy nod.

"Alright." Persephone slouches back in her seat. "Let's see what you got."

…

The captain of the guards leads a contingent of four men to sweep the queen's storeroom, but much to their surprise, the store-room is locked –

From the inside.

"On the count of three," the captain booms. "One!"

Inside, Dean sinks to his knees, groaning "Shit shit shit shit…"

…..

Ash strums on his lute and sings, while Jo taps the tambourine in sedated rhythym and Andy pipes softly on the flute.

"_Picture yourself in a boat on a river  
With tangerine trees and marmalade skies  
Somebody calls you, you answer quite slowly  
A girl with kaleidoscope eyes…_."

…

"Two!"

Sam grabs a decorative lamp and hefts it like a club. "C'mon, Dean," he pants. "Get ready."

…

"_Sugar-paste flowers of yellow and green  
Towering over your head  
Look for the girl with the sun in her eyes  
And she's gone…_"

…..

"Three!"

In one sharp ringing crack the guards kick down the door and attack as one, descending on Sam and Dean with the armored fury of a kingdom not often tested.

…..

"_Lucy in the sky-y, with diamonds!_

_Lucy in the sky-y, with diamonds!_

_Lucy in the sky-y, with diamonds!_

_Ahhhhhhh-ahhhhhh…."_

…..

The dead can't bleed.

The living can.

In the aftermath it's the first thing that tips off the guards to the fact that Dean is different – his life has dimmed so considerably that he doesn't even stand out at first glance, but the bruises and cuts swelling on his face and hands are foreign to the golems. One guard grabs the shoulder of his captain, who has his fist rolled in Dean's tattered shirt. "Stop," he says. "This one is changing."

The captain shakes Dean, who grins with pink teeth as blood dribbles out the corner of his mouth. "Some strange magic," the captain growls. He turns to the guard at his shoulder. "What is your name, soldier?"

"Lycurgus, sir," the guard replies.

"Lycurgus," the captain repeats. "Search these two."

Lycurgus pats down Dean with his leather-gloved hands. Dean huffs a wet laugh and croaks, "Take me to dinner first." Then he searches Sam, who winces in pain and glares. Sam has a satchel over his shoulder, and Lycurgus dumps its contents on the floor to reveal a myriad of knickknacks and a small jewel-box the size of an apple, crafted out of gold and garnet and clasped with a silver pin.

"Captain," he says, raising up the jewel box. "It's the queen's beauty."

The protective plates on the captain's hands creak as he clenches them. "Agis, Chionis," he barks. "Take the one on the left. We'll take them to the queen, who will decide their punishment." He hauls up Dean with the help of the soldier to his right, and he nods his red-crested helmet to Lycurgus. "Bring that with us. She'll want to affirm it's not been tampered with."

The five guards drag their two prisoners from the storeroom and up the labyrinthine flights of stairs toward the throne room.

…

Ash, Andy and Jo take a bow.

Persephone taps her palms together in a polite golf clap. "Great," she says with a forced lightness. "Awesome. Now would you kindly go back to whatever rock you crawled out from under and never bother me again?"

Ash scratches his head. "Well, we have another song we've been workin' on, it's called Stairway To… uh… Hades…."

Persephone rolls her eyes. "Oh, gods."

The door slams open and the captain of the guard strides in, bearing himself tall and proud until he falls before Persephone on bended knee. "Your majesty," he proclaims. "My greatest apologies for the interruption, but we have a situation of the utmost urgency."

Persephone stands quickly, her dark eyes darting instantly to the two men being dragged in by the other four guards. "What is this?" she demands.

The captain makes a gesture, and Lycurgus drops his side of Dean and steps forward. "We apprehended these two men in your store room," the captain explains. "They were attempting to steal the box containing your everlasting beauty."

Persephone's face tightens savagely, and she glares at the prisoners. Dean's head lolls between his shoulders, his swollen lip dripping a mixture of spittle and blood. Sam's eyes stare at the ground, unfocused.

"How is a living man in our kingdom?" she asks the room. "And where is my beauty?"

Lycurgus reveals the jewel box resting in the palm of his hand. "We secured it, your highness," he says.

She steps forward to take the box

and Lycurgus

steps back.

Sam raises his eyes, glistening sharp and keen.

Dean rolls his face up, one eye swollen into a squint. "You know, I wouldn't call it an 'attempt' to steal your beauty."

Lycurgus drops the jewel box clinking to the ground and rests his armored heel on it.

Dean grins. "I'd call it a success."

"Release these men," Lycurgus says evenly, "or I bring down my weight."

Persephone's nostrils flare.

The captain of the guard draws his sword and brandishes it at Lycurgus. "You insolent traitor!" he declares. "Step back now, soldier, or risk my wrath!"

Then Lycurgus reaches up and lifts his helmet off to reveal –

a black haired man with bright blue eyes and just the barest hint of a smirk.

…..

**In the Reception Hall, Under the Table**

A naked golem sleeps soundly, breathing deep and quiet, shielded from prying eyes by the floor-length black tablecloth; an unnatural slumber has stolen over him, one markedly similar to the slumber Cerberus experienced some weeks ago. It is a unique effect that occurs when a special blend of potent herbs are shoved into one's visor and accidentally inhaled.

…

In the corner of the throne room, Ash, Andy and Jo work to conceal their glee.

The captain steps toward Cas.

Castiel draws his sword and leans forward on the jewel box. "Make a move, and I will crush it," he threatens. "I will likely crush it by accident if you unbalance me."

The captain steps forward again.

"Stop!" Persephone commands. "Just – stop. What do you want?'

"You let us go," Sam says in a low voice. "You lead us to the portal. And you let us walk through."

She raises an eyebrow. "What portal?"

Castiel presses his foot down, and the metal of the jewel box begins to warp and bend. "The portal to the living world," he growls. "You _know_ where it is."

"Is that all?" she asks, with a sideways clench of her jaw. "And if I don't?"

"Well…." Dean staggers to his feet, hauling himself up on the guard who dragged him in. "Then we destroy your source of beauty. And you turn into a hag, and Hades grimaces at the sight of you, and when you go waltzing up into the daylight come springtime, it's gonna be a liiiittle harder for you inspire the flowers into bloom."

Persephone huffs in disbelief. "You're going to destroy the spring itself, the entire world, just to get your life back?"

Dean's smile twitches. "Lady. For us, the world's already been destroyed. This is just me putting things to rights."

She crosses her arms and gazes at her jewel box, squeezed under Castiel's heel.

"C'mon," Dean goads. "We've taken the board here. We've got you in check. Just forfeit this match already and get it over with."

And just then the back entrance to the throne room squeaks open, and two men waltz in lackadaisically. One is pale with short dark brown hair and a trim black suit and smiling smugly, while the other is dark-skinned and wrapped in a navy blue robe, glowering with the strength of a lifetime of hatred.

"Well, speak of the devil," the first man greets them, a British drawl to his voice. "It's just the boys we were discussing, Poseidon. Tweedle Dee, Tweedle Dum, and Tweedle Moron."

"Stay back!" Castiel snaps, his eyes flashing as he readies his foot.

The man flicks his hand, and Castiel flies across the room and slams into the wall.

Sam swallows.

"Who're you?" Dean growls, every bruise and cut and weak point on his body achingly apparent. "This bitch's fairy godmother?"

The man smiles and picks up the jewel box from the floor, and takes up Castiel's sword from where it's fallen. He hefts it experimentally. "I'm Hades," he says, approaching Dean, "and I'm the black king."

Sam watches him with a growing sense dread, Poseidon's burning eyes boring into him.

Jo, Ash and Andy shrink back into their corner.

Dean musters himself up and looks Hades in the eye. "Oh yeah?" he says. "Real tight ship you're running here."

Hades moves in closer until he's a hairsbreadth away, and he puts his hand to Dean's shoulder. "You're alive, aren't you? By one tenuous little thread," he says softly, in a deep voice that prickles at the back of Dean's neck. "A little magic thread with Nereid-prints all over it…" He smirks and his fingers tighten. "Well, it's quite impressive, but you've made your move. And now it's my turn."

Castiel drags himself up from where he crumpled. "No!" he shouts.

Hades draws back the sword, gives it a surge of crackling dark magic, and plunges it through Dean.

The thread is severed.

The last dregs of life trickle out of Dean with a groan, and he drops to the floor. Dead. He can move, can think, but his heart doesn't beat and his lungs don't breathe and he is completely, utterly, coldly and wholly dead.

Hades wipes the sword on his pant leg. "I believe," he says, "that's called checkmate."

Dean blinks.

He's so numb.

He feels nothing.

"And as for you…" Hades turns to the three pirates in the corner. "Don't think I don't know you were in on this. Oh, the tortures I'll devise for you lot in Tartarus…"

"Castiel is one of my own," Poseidon says, his voice resonating in the walls. "Allow me to select a fitting punishment for the servant who abetted my son's murderer."

"Oh sure, sure," Hades agrees, flapping his hand nonchalantly. "Whatever you like, I don't care. Take the fishboy." He walks over to Persephone and puts an arm around her waist. "And you, sweet, are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Persephone mutters, pushing him away. "You smell like seaweed."

Hades narrows his eyes, but then turns his attentions back to his prisoners. The captain of the guard has taken Castiel in hand, and he drags him next to Dean and Sam. "Sam, Sam, Sam," Hades begins, shaking his head and tsking. "Such promise. You had such a bright future. Still bright, as it so happens, just in a different, fire-and-brimstone kind of way."

"Don't toy with us," Sam grinds out between clenched teeth.

Hades chuckles. "You might as well ask the sun not to shine! You come into _my_ castle, threaten _my_ wife, try to steal our property and break the very laws of the universe and you expect to get off _scot-free?_" His smile wrenches into a harsh scowl. "NOT GODS-DAMNED LIKELY!"

Dean feels a strength surging through the numbness, the kind of strength born of the absence of pain, like the braveness you feel when you're too stupid to know you should be afraid. He begins to rise from the floor.

Hades doesn't notice him, but continues to tear into Sam. "I'm going to breed a very special tank of piranhas," he seethes, "and I'm going to chain you inside it. And these piranhas will be specially trained to eat slowly, selectively, starting with your private parts and ending with your eyeballs so that throughout the entire, painstaking process you will be able to _see_ them chew the flesh and sinew and ligament from your bones. And when they've all finished up and picked their teeth clean, your body will miraculously restore itself and the cycle will begin all. Over. Again." He smirks. "And as for your brother? Well. I'll probably just make him watch."

Dean stands up.

"Oh look, one of my subjects." Hades eyeballs him. "You actually look better dead, you realize that?"

"Zeus," Dean says.

Hades frowns.

"ZEUS!" Dean shouts.

Ash and Jo and Andy's eyes widen in surprise. Sam's jaw tightens.

Castiel smiles.

"ZEUS, YOU SON OF A BITCH!" Dean hollers. "YOU CALL THIS LUCKY? THIS IS HOW YOU REWARD YOUR FRIENDS? I'M ABOUT TO BE SENT TO THE SLAMMER FOR ALL FUCKING ETERNITY AND YOU CAN'T EVEN MAKE THE COURT HEARING?"

"Oh, fuck," Hades mutters, rubbing his temple. Poseidon's glower increases in intensity.

"ALL WE DID WAS DEFEND OURSELVES," Dean yells to the ceiling. "WE KILLED THE MAN WHO TRIED TO KILL US AND FRANKLY, HE WAS KIND OF A MAJOR PRICK, AND NOW WE GET PIRANHAS FOR THE NEXT FEW CENTURIES? IN WHAT REALM IS THAT FAIR?"

"That is my son you are speaking of," Poseidon growls.

"ZEUS, YOU SQUIRRELY FUCK," Dean screams, "GET DOWN HERE RIGHT NOW OR YOU STEP DOWN AS KING OF THE FUCKING GODS, YOU HEAR ME?"

Persephone hides a smile behind her hand.

"Hey-o!" Hermes pops into existence next to Persephone. "Speedy Deliveries, at your service. Got a message from our man Zeus."

"The answer is no," Hades snaps. "I won't let them go. They've defied the gods!"

"Well…" Hermes cracks his knuckles. "As a messenger boy, I've been authorized to use extreme force."

Poseidon steps forward. "I will stop you if you try to take them," he vows. "And I am much more powerful than a little flighty sparrow."

Hermes's eyebrows jump. "You wanna start this, big boy?" he asks incredulously. "A war of the gods over a couple of puny humans?"

"What war?" Hades demands. "It's me, Poseidon, and Persephone against you. That's called an ambush."

"Zeus is with me," Hermes reminds him. "And you don't want to get on his bad side."

"Well, my bad side ain't such a comfy place either." Another person pops into being next to Poseidon, a woman with a round face and dark curly hair in a leather jacket. "I'm with the pall-bearer and the fish stick. These guys deserve to rot in Tartarus."

Hades smiles with surprise. "Artemis. So glad you could join us."

She grins and puts her hands to her hips. "I had to leave the hounds at home. I hope you don't mind. I just wanted to put my two cents in."

"Well, I've got cents as well," a blonde British man chimes in, appearing next to Hermes. "And I'm with the mortals. I… sort of have to be." He shrugs helplessly. "They're _huge_ patrons of mine."

"Figures Dionysus would show," Persephone mutters. "He loves a good fight."

Dean looks to Sam. "Is it just me, or is it getting crowded in here?"

"I'm with the boys too." The woman who appears beside Castiel has black hair pulled back in a businesslike ponytail and a no-nonsense expression. "And considering wisdom is my area of specialty, you might want to review your options before jumping at the trigger."

"Really, Athena," Hades says in exasperation. "You, of all people. If I let them go, what's to stop every Tom, Dick and Calamity Jane from barging in here and demanding to be released from the underworld?"

The gods all begin to bicker with one another, shouting and filling the room with chaotic noise.

Dean looks to Cas, who's trying desperately to follow the conversation, and he realizes something.

He's dead now, so…

He reaches out and takes Cas's hand.

Cas's eyes shoot to Dean's, blue and wide and surprised.

The guards on either side of them shift uneasily, but don't interfere.

"Hey," Dean says, smiling. "Got nothin' to lose." And he reaches to his other side and takes Sam's hand and squeezes it.

Sam's head whips to Dean, and he stares in consternation.

Dean shrugs.

Oddly enough, Sam accepts it.

The three of them stand in bubble of strange calm in the midst of rising tempers and superpowers boiling over, the eye of the storm. Artemis bristles and Hades flashes his sword and a strange blue glow gathers around Poseidon, and Dean knows this may not end well for them. Cas's fingers tighten around his and he hopes, he hopes this isn't the last time they ever –

"ENOUGH!"

The storm parts.

A tiny woman with brown-blonde hair steps between the two groups of gods, her mouth pursed tight and her eyes glaring wide. "Zeus is occupied right now with some very important business," she says, crossing her arms, "so I had to come down here myself."

….

**Meanwhile, on Mount Olympus**

Zeus hastily writes on his parchment scroll: _I will not sleep with dryads. I will not sleep with dryads. I will not sleep with dryads. I will not sleep with dryads._ He stops to count and chews the nib of his quill. One thousand, two hundred and seventeen.

Only eight thousand, seven hundred and eighty three more times to go.

_I will not sleep with dryads. I will not sleep with dryads…_

…

"You've all trusted my judgment in the past," Hera continues, "as well as my attention to detail when it comes to attractive men."

The other gods grumble in assent.

"I've reviewed the situation carefully, and I've come to a decision." Hera looks each of them in the eye. "Poseidon, your son Gordon _did_ provoke this entire thing when he kidnapped Sam for his bounty. Everything after that has just been revenging other revenges."

Poseidon scowls at the floor, but says nothing.

"And Hades, you _do_ have a point. We can't let these men set a bad example for everyone else." She presses her lips together. "But we _also_ can't set a bad example for ourselves, of just letting mortals be bullied by the gods! What happened to Sam and Dean wasn't fair, much less Jo or Ash or Andy – innocent bystanders."

"_Thank_ you," Dean breathes.

"So my solution," Hera concludes, "is to return them home alive – on the condition that they swear on the waters of the Styx, which _as you know_ is an unbreakable vow, that when it comes time for them to die again they will accept it with grace and submit to their fate in the underworld, whatever that may be. And that they'll never, ever, ever tell anyone about this."

The other gods consider.

"Well," Persephone says, "since no harm was actually done…"

Hera claps her hands together and beams. "Great! Then it's settled. I love doing mediations!" she gushes. "One time, I actually mediated between the _sun_ and the _wind_. They're like, practically best friends now."

...

So the six pirates are led through the process of swearing on the waters of the Styx, repeating a very carefully worded oath devised by Hades himself with many clauses and subclauses. And then Hera puts her hand to Dean's forehead and says, "Take a deep breath."

"Me first?" Dean asks warily. "How do I know you'll follow through with the other guys?"

Hera shrugs. "You'll just have to trust me."

Dean takes a deep breath.

And then Hera's hand starts to tingle, and the world turns blinding white.


	32. Chapter 32

A/N: _Thank you, everyone, for your wonderful reviews. I have good news and bad news. The good news is, this is the second to last chapter! (Yaaaaaaaaaaay!) The bad news is, that means there's only one chapter left. (Awwwwwwwwwww.) I'm also going out of town for a couple days, so the next update will probably not be until late Sunday, bUT I PROMISE IT WILL BE WORTH WAITING FOR. PROMISE._

_I think after the last chapter, I'll post a little thingy with my SPN/Greek characters list and the answers to some FAQs, as well as some other pertinent information. I'm in a hurry to get this posted so I won't say much, other than that your reward for reviewing is AN ETERNAL PLACE IN HEAVEN WHERE ALL THE SUPERNATURAL CHARACTERS LIVE AND ASH WEARS A LUCHADOR MASK AND EVERYTHING IS BEAUTIFUL AND NOTHING HURTS. That is all._

_Enjoy the chapter!_

* * *

**The Rectory Kitchen of Father Scruggs, London, England**

"Benjamin is intelligent, certainly, but his mind is undisciplined. He sits at the window and daydreams, drawing pictures of fantastical creatures and storybook characters… He needs a strong hand, Mrs. Smith. A patriarch to mold him into a man. Someone who will not spare the rod, who will bind him to God's will."

Lisa fans the rhubarb pie, fresh out of the oven, and looks the vicar – recently made rector – in the eye. "What exactly are you suggesting, Father Scruggs?"

He's a firm-jawed young man, his dark hair parted neatly to one side, and penetrating hazel eyes that have humbled more than one sinner over the course of his tenure. He's handsome, almost dramatically so – handsome in a way that sets him above other men, untouchable, pure.

He never quite smiles. His mouth and eyes will soften when he is moved, but he never fully smiles.

Now he gazes at Lisa and says, "I'm suggesting you consider remarriage."

Lisa wipes her hands on a towel and avoids his eyes. "I see."

"It's been nearly eight years since your husband disappeared, Mrs. Smith," Scruggs says, walking slowly around the counter. "Our Father, in all his infinite mystery, seems to have taken him from us; and without a father Benjamin will languish, a fallow field in the Lord's garden."

Lisa presses her lips together. "With all due respect, Father, my son is a person, not a crop, and my husband is missing, not dead."

"And yet," Scruggs says softly, tilting his head just slightly, "I can't seem to find any marriage records in your name."

Lisa's heart skids in its beat.

"And why were you looking?" she asks. "What business is it of yours?"

He gives her a deprecating look. "Lisa. Your immortal soul is my business."

"You were worried about my soul, so you started looking for my marriage license?" she demands.

Scruggs slides his thumb along the countertop and eyes the pie. "I wanted to know the state of your grace before making my proposal."

Lisa blinks. "The proposal that I remarry?"

His piercing eyes catch hers again, sharp with calm intensity. "The proposal that you marry _me._"

Lisa is frozen to the spot.

There's only one thing she can think to ask.

"Michael," she breathes, "do you – do you feel affection for me?"

He reflects.

"In time," he finally answers, "I would come to be affectionate."

Lisa's stomach twists tight, and her hands clench compulsively. "In time," she repeats bitterly, "you'd feel for me. The way you've come to love the faithful old nag that carries your cart to the market each week. Tell me, Father Scruggs, when you came up with this brilliant proposal of yours, what exactly came into your calculations? How much money you could save if I made your dinners for free? How nice I would look sitting in the front pew with your missal in my hand?"

Scruggs steps back, alarmed. "Mrs. Smith," he says, "how _vulgar_."

Lisa flushes red. "It's the truth, isn't it?"

"Hardly!" Father Scruggs is perturbed, staring at Lisa. "I merely thought that… that you, you were a woman of penitence with a young boy to raise. I thought that I could be a father to Ben."

"By punishing him at home, instead of just at school?" Lisa asks. "By blackmailing me into marrying you?"

"I never," Scruggs huffs.

"You _were_," Lisa says firmly.

"I've had quite enough of this _slander_," Scruggs hisses. "I opened my home and my services to you, 'Mrs.' Smith. I gave you a very generous offer and you've spurned me out of pride or some entirely unwarranted vanity. If it weren't for me, you would've been forced to marry Mr. Ferrier when your building burnt down, a fact I'm not convinced is coincidental. I've allowed you to live in the rectory nearly rent-free."

Lisa sighs and presses her hand to the counter. "I know, and I'm thankful for everything you've given us, for letting us stay here, but – I can't marry you, Father Scruggs. Not when the only soft feeling you can seem to muster up for me is christian charity."

The rector's handsome face hardens, like a statue in marble.

"Then," he says quietly, icily, "your continued residence here no longer seems appropriate."

Lisa's throat squeezes tight.

"Knock knock."

Lisa and Scruggs turn to the door.

A strange man is standing in the doorway, dressed in black trousers and a gray wool jacket. He has light brown hair and a scraggly reddish beard, calloused crooked fingers, a slight smile and unforgettable green eyes.

It's him.

Eight years later, it's him.

"Excuse me," Scruggs says, "I don't believe we've met."

"Your maid let me in," the man says. "I'm here for Lisa."

Scrugg's eyes widen.

"Dean," Lisa breathes. "I – I…. You're Dean!"

"Could you excuse us for a sec, Father?" Dean asks. "I'd like a moment with my wife." And he throws Lisa a tiny wink.

A wink?

A _wink?_

The moment that Scruggs leaves the kitchen, Lisa summons up every ounce of her indignation. "What the _hell_ do you think you're doing here?" she demands.

Dean blinks.

"Well," he says uncertainly, "after eight years lost at sea –"

"Eight. Years," Lisa rants. "Eight years, you leave me on my own. You leave me to raise your son, who luckily is too young to remember the day I realized you're the wanted pirate Dean_ Winchester_."

Dean sucks a breath between his teeth. "Ohhh yeah."

"Eight _years,_" she continues furiously, "I've had to support myself and Ben and _lie_ because I was a stupid young girl taken in by a con man who didn't realize he was _destroying_ her life for his own quick pleasure – emphasis on _quick_, by the way."

Dean holds up a finger. "But I –"

"And you expect to, to waltz in here and _wink _at me?" Lisa exclaims. "You think you can just pick up where we left off and you'll charm your way under my skirt again and leave for another eight years?"

Dean closes his hand in an aborted gesture. "Lisa –"

"And your son," she says shakily. "Benjamin. He's seven years old and you've never even met him. He can _read,_ Dean. He's – he's so smart, and he's kind, and… You know what that rector was just telling me? That he needs a father."

Dean wipes a hand down his face and looks away.

"So I don't know what to do with you." Lisa crosses her arms and takes a trembling breath. "As of ten minutes ago Ben and I are homeless, so I don't suppose I have much other choice. But damn it, Dean." She closes her eyes and tries to keep her voice from breaking. "You _never came back_."

Dean is silent.

Eventually he says, "I didn't come here to win you back, Lisa."

She opens her eyes.

Dean looks serious, more than serious – like for once, he understands how painful life can be. His mouth still turns up in a rueful smile, but his eyes are…

Well. A little heartbroken.

He's changed, in those eight years. She can read it in the lines of his face. He's changed just like she has. They parted ways as reckless kids and now they've met again old, worn down by the harshness of reality and the bone-wearying struggle of hoping against hope, fighting against inevitability, swimming against the current.

For the first time, Lisa begins to believe that Dean was truly lost at sea.

"I know what I did to you wasn't right," he says. "I didn't even think…. I didn't know I had a son. But I want to make it up to you. The both of you."

Lisa exhales in disbelief. "How?"

Dean smiles and offers his hand. "I'll show you."

…..

**A day's journey later**

Out in the English countryside, in the middle of miles of rocky farmland, there is a small valley that holds a quiet apple orchard. A little house perches on the western crest of the valley, white with a thatched roof and a red brick chimney.

"It's all paid for," Dean says. "I came back with nothing, but I dug up an old treasure stash out in Wales, and… I figured that money belongs to you. The rest of it's in the attic in a trunk."

Lisa presses a hand to her mouth. "Dean," she whispers, "it's beautiful."

Ben squints down at the apple trees. "Cool," he says. "I like apples."

They go inside the house, and Dean sits Ben down at the kitchen table. Lisa meets his eyes and nods, and wanders down to the cellar.

"Ben," Dean says, "I gotta talk to you man to man."

Ben sits up straighter. At seven years old, his legs still dangle off the chair. "I have a question first," he says.

Dean shrugs. "Shoot."

Ben props his chin up on his hand and gives Dean the gravest look ever delivered by a child. "Are you my dad?"

For a moment, the words stutter in Dean's mouth.

Then he finds the courage to say, "Ben. I'm your father."

Ben lights up, and a grin splits across his face.

Something inside of Dean breaks.

"Awesome!" Ben says. "I knew it! Were you in India? Joey's dad was gone a long time and he was in India! Do you still like pies? Mom says you used to like her pies and there's a lotta apples out here so we could probably make like a _thousand_ pies –"

"Ben…" Dean rubs his forehead. "This is what I wanted to talk to you about."

Ben stops talking, and waits.

"I can't… I can't stay here." Dean swallows tightly. "With you and your mom."

Ben's eyes dart straight to Dean's, wide and startled.

"I'm not exactly who you think I am." Dean forces himself to be as honest as he can, the jagged truth cutting in his mouth. "I'm a criminal, Ben, and the kind of life I live… the kind of man I am… can't stay here with you. I'd be hunted down. I'd make things a lot more difficult on you and your mom."

Ben's eyes are shiny and bright. "I already know you're a pirate," he croaks. "I figured that out already. I don't care!"

Dean nearly cracks. "That's not everything, trust me," he pleads. "I can't explain it to you right now, but people don't like guys like me, who do what I do. Okay?" He sucks in a deep breath. "And I want to be a part of your life, but frankly, I don't have the right! I haven't earned it. Your mom is doing a great job of raising you, Ben, she's a great mom, and she deserves every good thing. And none of that is thanks to me. She did it all on her own. Who am I to barge into you guys' lives?"

"But you're my father," Ben whispers.

"I know." Dean closes his eyes. "But I'm not your dad."

Ben is quiet, but Dean can feel his hopes crumbling.

"I'm gonna come back to visit when I can, but… I can't live here." Dean pinches his nose. "I'm sorry, Ben. You don't know how sorry I am."

"It's okay," Ben says quietly.

"No, it's not." Dean rests his arms on the table and looks Ben in the eye. "It's not okay and you don't have to pretend like it is. But sometimes that's just the way things are."

Ben nods.

"While I'm gone, one of my friends is gonna live here with you guys," Dean tells him. "He knows how to run this orchard – well, he knows how to run just about anything. And he's probably the smartest guy I've ever met, and he's gonna be your teacher from now on. I'm gonna send my letters to him, and if you ever want to write back, you just give him the letter and he'll know how to get it to me."

"You're gonna write?" Ben asks.

"All the time," Dean promises. "As often as I can."

Lisa comes up from the cellar and sees the two boys at the table. She walks behind Ben and cards her hand through his hair.

Dean stands up. "Well, I suppose it's time for me to get a move on."

The back door creaks open, and someone comes tromping in. "The horses are all put away," Ash declares, "but I think that star-faced one is gonna give me trouble. She's got a wily gleam in her eye."

Ben cranes around in his chair. "Are you Dean's friend?" he asks.

Ash grins. "Sure am."

Lisa looks a little taken aback by his unusual hair and stable-smell, but she offers her hand. "Hi," she says, "I'm Lisa Smith."

Ash takes her hand and drops into an elaborate bow. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance, miss. I'm Ashley Magellan, and I'll be helpin' you wrangle them apples."

Ben hops off his chair. "Magellan?"

Ash claps his shoulder and starts to walk to the door. "Yup. Direct descendent of Ferdinand 'The' Magellan, circumnavigator extraordinaire. A few years back I actually decided to retrace his footsteps, but unfortunately I was almost immediately kidnapped and taken to Bombay."

Ben follows Ash, his eyes the size of saucers. "Bombay? Where's that?"

"India!" Ash exclaims. "Land of exotic spices and exotic women – but we'll skip that part. I think you might be a bit too recently hatched for tales of the maharajah's harem. Let's just say – lots of scarves. Those women _love_ their scarves. But I had a mission to get back to, so I gave my captors the slip and set sail on the Arabian Sea, hoping to get back on track in the Maldive Islands…"

They walk out the door together as Ash spins his tales for the young boy and leads him to the orchard, where they'll talk and pick apples until the sun goes down.

Lisa and Dean stand quietly in the kitchen.

"Thank you," Lisa says.

Dean rubs his elbow. "It's the least I owe you. It doesn't even come close to balancing the score sheet with Ben."

Lisa pauses for a moment, and then blurts, "You could stay here, you know. I was angry before but you could stay if you wanted."

Dean shakes his head. "Thanks, but. I got somebody waiting for me."

Lisa smiles ruefully. "Figures. Is she prettier than me?"

Dean's face goes hot, and he briefly considers lying before he finally answers, "It's a him."

Lisa blinks.

"There's a him waiting for me," Dean admits, "and I can't wait to get back."

"Well." Lisa chews her lip awkwardly. "Um. Okay."

"Goodbye, Lisa." Dean reaches out and pulls her into a hug, and it's surprisingly gratifying when she hugs back.

"Goodbye," she whispers.

….

Dean makes his way out into the orchard and says goodbye to Ben, who clings to him with a fierceness that betrays his stoic face. He hugs Ash for good measure too, since God knows when they'll meet again, and Ash says, "Thanks, man. For everything."

He saddles up his borrowed horse and begins the long journey back, unable to say if he's done the right thing but hopeful that he's at least done something good.


	33. Chapter 33

A/N:_ So, my dear friends. We have come to the end. **  
**_

_I can't believe I've finally reached it. It's all thanks to you folks, really, everyone who read and reviewed and encouraged. I thank you from the bottom of my heart. _

_Soon I'll post a character index and a list of other little tidbits/factoids I think you might like to know. I know somebody asked me about which version of the Odyssey I read, and that information will be there too. And then, one of my LJ friends is going to read this story in its entirety and I'll edit it and repost a perhaps-radically-different version on LJ, in probably three to five chunks. So, I encourage you to check it out a couple weeks from now, when it should be done. And hey, I can always use more LiveJournal friends, so hit me up! _

_I just hope I've satisfied you readers. You're my priority. I know I asked you to take a huge leap of faith in reading this seemingly insane fic, but I hope it's paid off for you. If you read and enjoyed it, even a little bit, please review and let me know. It will make a huge difference to me._

_Finally, I'm starting law school mid-September, so I don't know how often I'll be able to write. It may be awhile. It may be months. When I do write, it'll probably be one-shots. I hope we'll meet again soon, but if we don't - goodbye and thanks for all the fish. _

_Enjoy the chapter._

* * *

**The House of Dr. Samuel Wesson, London, England – In the Guest Room, Well After Midnight**

"And I can't even describe to you, what it's like…" Dean wipes a hand down his face. "To be looking at this kid, this little _person_, and to see these little insignificant pieces of yourself reflected back at you, and to realize, that's me. That's a _part_ of me. I'm half the reason this new person exists. It's just… insane."

Castiel doesn't try to empathize or offer up similar experiences. He doesn't have any. He just listens and allows Dean to talk.

"And when I said goodbye, it felt kinda… _wrong._" Dean sighs and lays his hands flat on the small table the two of them are sitting at. "I felt like I was abandoning him. And even though it's the best thing I could do for him, I just wonder… I wonder if…" He trails off and chews the inside of his cheek.

Castiel waits for the end of the thought, but Dean never finishes it.

"Anyway," Dean continues, "maybe when he's twelve or something, I'll take him on a boat ride. At this age, he'd be too excited about it. I don't want to confuse him morally; my son is going to be legitimate. Lisa thinks he could become a printer."

There's a tinge of pride in his voice, in those words: _my son_. Castiel smiles a little before he remembers that he's half the reason Dean and Ben can't be together.

But it's Dean's choice. He made that clear.

"What is it?" Dean asks suspiciously. "What are you thinking about?"

Castiel turns his eyes up to Dean's. "Unimportant things," he answers.

Dean snorts. "Sure."

They sit quietly for a minute, not sure where to pick up the strands of conversation.

There's a strange space between them, an uneasy expectancy pulled taut in the air. It's the first night they've been alone together since coming back to life, and every so often Castiel finds his gaze lingering on Dean's hands or the v of his shirt. Yet, it's been more than a year since he touched Dean, _really_ touched him, and he's not sure how to initiate something physical.

Before, it was so easy – they seemed drawn together like magnets, a force of nature beyond their bodies. Now, he feels trapped inside his own thoughts, second-guessing every movement, trying to interpret a foreign language in the darting of Dean's eyes and the twitches of his fingertips. He can't help but sense that Dean is lost too, unable to cross the wide expanse of table but unable to keep from glancing at Castiel's mouth. Tonight, the first night together, seems to have been silently and arbitrarily accepted as A Night of Importance.

But Dean sounds fatigued from his travels, and Castiel feels anxiety welling in the pit of his stomach. Perhaps tonight is bad timing.

"It's late," Castiel says. "We should go to sleep."

Dean blinks. "Oh – okay. Yeah."

Castiel walks to the bed, where two neatly folded nightshirts sit. "Sam left us these."

Dean walks over and shakes his out, eyeing it warily. "Huh."

So they change and glance at each other all the while, each strangely mirroring the other's movements, and stand on either side of the double bed.

"Just one bed," Dean says, scratching the back of his neck. "Hope that's okay."

Castiel cocks his head slightly and frowns. "Why wouldn't it be?"

"Uh, maybe – I don't know, I don't know why I said that," Dean admits.

They climb into bed, and Dean blows out the lamp on the nightstand.

They lie in silence, wide awake.

"Cas?" Dean whispers.

Castiel turns his head towards Dean. "Yes?"

"I don't know how to do this." His voice is soft, honest in the dark. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do here. Everything's different."

"I don't know either," Castiel tells him. "I don't know why it's more difficult now."

"It always felt like an accident, before," Dean says. "Like, one minute we'd be fighting and then next we'd be naked. I never – I never had to _try_, you know? It was never on purpose."

"Yes, I agree." Castiel slides closer under the covers and finds Dean's arm, twining their hands together. "It was nearly involuntary, a physical reaction."

"Exactly!" Dean exclaims. "And now – now I'm looking at you, and I'm thinking, Jesus, it's been so long, and we've given up so much – what if it's not as good as we remember? And I just can't even touch you because it's not the perfect moment and it has to be perfect now."

"It won't ever be perfect, Dean," Castiel remarks dryly. "By definition. We're incapable of perfection."

"I know," Dean sighs, pressing his shoulder into Cas's. "I just don't want to let you down."

"You won't," Castiel says.

Dean pauses. "How do you know that?"

Castiel squeezes his hand. "I don't know it," he answers. "I believe it."

Dean doesn't say anything.

Then he exhales slowly, and the tightness in the room lessens.

Then after a moment, he asks, "Did you say we're incapable of perfection?"

"Yes."

"Well. I think _incapable _is a strong word."

"Why?"

"We've gotten to it before. You remember how smooth I was before all this stuff happened… I think I had some pretty perfect moves way back when."

"Memory is deceptive," Castiel says innocently. "You've clearly embellished over time."

"Embellished!" Dean sits up indignantly and glares down at him. "Embellished, my ass! I recall someonesaying, and I quote, 'Oh, oh, Dean, yes, Dean, perfect!'"

"I exaggerate during coitus," Castiel replies. "It improves performance."

Dean huffs and, with a heavy flounce, falls back onto his side of the bed with his back turned to Castiel, yanking the covers with him.

Castiel smiles in spite of himself and puts a hand to Dean's back. "Dean. I apologize."

"Get away, you – you _Delilah_," Dean snaps.

Castiel slides his hand up Dean's back and over his shoulder. "Now you're the one exaggerating," he says. "I haven't double-crossed you."

"Oh yeah?" Dean turns back to him, skewering him with an excessive scowl. "You've double-crossed my _self esteem_, Cas. How is my manhood supposed to remain intact when you apparently fake all your orgasms?"

"Only twice," Castiel says.

Dean's eyes widen in a moment of actual shock.

"That was a lie," Castiel says. "I just wanted to see if you would believe it."

"You son of a bitch," Dean breathes, and he rolls over and pins Castiel down with a kiss.

In a moment they're quickly pushing back the covers and kicking them to the foot of the bed, kissing and pressing and touching in ways that Castiel had almost forgotten existed, had truthfully forgotten the sensation of, and he groans and arches against Dean with a primal shamelessness that he was afraid he'd lost. Dean kisses along his neck and works Castiel's nightshirt up, gasping his name and then sitting up momentarily to tug the shirt over Castiel's head and arms and cast it on the floor.

Castiel tackles him and pushes him into the bed, biting and licking along Dean's jaw and pushing up his nightshirt and reveling in the wrecked way Dean moans at his touch, and it's just as he rubs his naked body against Dean's hip that Dean clutches him and gasps "Cas, fuck, CasCasCas_wait_ –"

and comes.

There's a moment of catching breath, and then Dean groans in embarrassment and rolls his face into Cas's neck.

Castiel chuckles into his hair.

"Welp, there goes perfect," Dean mumbles, his lips soft against Castiel's skin. "Maybe I should just set my sights lower and shoot for 'adequate'."

"I love you, Dean," Castiel says.

He's not sure why he chose that moment, but it's been burning inside him for awhile now.

Dean's lips press against him in a kiss. "Then imagine how much you're gonna love me," he says, "when I get finished with you…" And he flips Castiel on his back and sets to work.

….

Later, they lay drowsily side by side, the sheets pulled back up to their original position. Dean watches Cas with sleep-heavy eyes, and his arm rests on Castiel's chest, his hand up by Castiel's shoulder and the thumb working idly in small, slow circles.

"I love you too, you know."

Castiel looks over at Dean.

"I just, I'm not sure if I ever said it," Dean continues, his eyes steadily following along the movement of his thumb. "It's not a thing I say a lot, but. It's true, and. There it is. Hopefully you figured it out on your own by now."

The corner of Castiel's mouth turns up. "I did."

Dean nestles closer and closes his eyes. "Good."

"But it's nice to hear." Castiel closes his eyes as well. "It's nice to be reminded."

Dean yawns and sinks deeper into the pillow. "Then I'll break it out around the holidays," he mumbles, "maybe birthday if I'm feelin' generous…"

Castiel inhales deeply and feels his body drifting toward sleep. "I don't have a birthday," he murmurs, "so you could save that for… the summer months… when Christmas is still far away…"

"Sure thing, Cas… sure thing…"

…..

He doesn't care who says Cas is just a regular human. Dean's pretty sure Cas is still some kind of magic.

After a year away from him, a year of quiet numb sex with Anna, he'd forgotten how fucking electric the guy is – how raw and alive and vivid he feels against Dean's skin, how easily Dean can go from zero to sixty with just one muttered word in his ear. Dean is hyperaware of every point of contact between them, every grazed touch and damp kiss and hot breath.

Yeah. He's never gonna let this go.

Dean's always been a fan of morning sex, and this morning is head and shoulders above the rest. He manages not to repeat last night's early curtain call and gets Cas to swear in English _and _Greek, and then Cas does this thing that feels so good it nearly makes Dean black out and he stops even trying to form words and he just _moans_ until he can think again.

Cas is definitely still some kind of magic.

After several minutes of the two of sprawled panting on the bed, staring at the ceiling glassy-eyed and wordless, Cas manages to say, "We should. We should always do that."

"Nnnnh," Dean grunts, still beyond forming sensible speech.

Someone knocks on the door.

"Don't enter," Castiel says. "We're indecent."

Dean chuckles.

A heavy muffled sigh sounds through the wood. "Could you guys keep it down?" Sam asks through the door. "This room is not sound proof."

"We'll try," Cas answers.

"Buzzkill," Dean mutters at the door.

Sam's footsteps tread wearily away, the footsteps of a man who didn't get much sleep last night and knows he probably won't sleep any better for the next several days.

…..

**Later that evening**

"So," Sam says. "Here we are."

Jo nods and looks around the dining room. "England," she says. "Finally here."

"I'm really lucky I was able to get the house back," Sam says. "And so quickly."

"Yeah, that's really lucky," she agrees.

The candles in the candelabra flicker.

It's supposed to be a romantic evening. Dean and Cas are gone, under strict orders to make themselves scarce. The room is spotless and the crystal is sparkling, Sam's dressed in his finest dove-gray suit with his hair pulled back respectably; Jo is laced into an elaborate pink gown with silk rosettes sewn all along the skirt, matching rosettes pinned into her hair. Every so often she tugs uncomfortably at the bodice and shifts in her chair, fidgeting with her silver necklace, and Sam becomes aware of the way his own neck chafes under his high-buttoned collar, and the way sweat trickles along his hairline at the temples.

"England," Sam repeats. "We made it after all."

Jo cuts a piece of her pork and eats it.

"How is it?" Sam asks. "The cook is new, so."

"It's good," she replies.

"Marry me," Sam blurts.

Jo freezes.

Sam palms his forehead and mentally kicks himself. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he apologizes. "I – I didn't mean to just – just spring it on you like that."

Jo puts down her fork and knife.

"And-and-and I know we were separated in the underworld," Sam stammers, "but I still have – feelings for you, Jo, and – I – well, we made it to England, and –"

"Sam," Jo says, a resigned look on her face. "I don't want to marry you."

Sam's words catch in his throat.

His heart plummets into his stomach.

"Don't get me wrong, I – I can't deny that I have feelings too," Jo continues. "But I've been married before, and I'm not all that eager to try it again."

"That was him," Sam says urgently. "This is me. Marry _me,_ Jo, that's what I'm asking!"

"But it's the whole idea!" Jo shoves her chair back and stands up, gesturing at Sam with her arms. "Don't you get it? I don't want to be the second Mrs. Sam Wesson. I want to be _Jo Harvelle_. I don't just want to be somebody's wife!"

Sam stands up too, trying to reign in the desperation clawing at his chest. "It doesn't have to be like that!" he insists. "I wouldn't treat you like that!"

"It wouldn't be you," she counters. "You can't tell me your colleagues will think of me as an independent woman. You can't tell me that I can entertain respectable company in men's pants and be seen as anything more than a harlot!"

"Then don't wear pants!" Sam retorts in frustration. "Put a dress on when the neighbors come by. I've had to spend my whole career pretending to come from a well-to-do background so _trust me_ when I say it's not that hard!"

"You have no idea what you're talking about," Jo snaps. "I spent five years living as a man. Being exposed, as a woman – it opened my eyes, Sam! For the first time in _years_ I was able to be who I wanted to be. And you think I'm so ready to take it all back, to pretend like it never happened – well, I can't_._" She rips off her silver necklace and tosses it to the floor. "I don't want to wear _pink dresses _and pointy hair pins and corsets," she exclaims angrily, "and I don't want to talk like a fucking _lady_, and pretend to be somebody I'm not!"

"Fine!" Sam shouts. "Let down your hair!" He grabs Jo by the arm and yanks the rosettes out, letting them clink on the hardwood as her blond locks tumble to her shoulders. "Be a free fucking spirit! I never _asked _you to be a lady, Jo! I never forced you into anything!"

Jo's nostrils flare and she glares up at him, wild-looking. "What did you _expect_?" she demands. "That you were just going to be a respectable doctor married to a pirate? You had to know what you were really asking!" She reaches up and rips open his suit jacket, the buttons popping off onto the floor, and exposes the pentagram tattoo on his chest. "Wear enough fancy clothes and no one has to know! Cover it up like an ugly scar! Spend enough money and they'll never suspect who you _really _are!"

"I'm a _doctor!_" Sam thrusts her hands off him. "_That's_ who I really am!"

Jo's breathing heavily, her dress disheveled and her hair mussed. "You're a pirate, Sam Winchester," she breathes. "A fucking pirate, through and through."

"And what are you?" Sam closes in, his eyes narrowing. "You're not a man. You're not a pirate. You're just a little girl playing dress up."

Jo slaps him across the face.

Sam glowers down at her, breathing hard, his jaw clenched and a red handprint blooming on his cheek.

"You left me," she accuses.

"You let me," Sam retorts.

"What was I supposed to do?" she demands.

"You were supposed to ask me to stay!" he shouts.

They glare at each other, locked in place.

And then suddenly they're kissing madly, and Sam grabs her shoulders and shoves her against the table, and she claws at his back and throws one leg up, kick off her shoe in the process, and he kisses her and bites at her lip and she bites back, all hunger and fierceness and pent up hours of need, and they don't stop to think or even to breathe but just devour each other with animal intensity and let the fancy dishes grow cold and stale.

…..

**Five Days Later, the Docks of London**

"She's a beaut, isn't she?"

The five of them walk along the weather deck of the new ship, appraising and inspecting.

"She's not the Impala," Sam concludes, "but she's the next best thing."

"What are you going to christen her?" Andy asks.

Dean grins. "Tell 'em, Cas."

Castiel gives Andy an unamused look. "The _Gazelle_."

Jo, Sam and Andy groan in unison.

"Hey, it's better than _Impala II_!" Dean says, running his hand along the railing. "You'll learn to love it."

"You can't sign a crew here," Jo points out. "Someone will catch wind."

"I think the five of us can get her to Wales." Dean smirks. "Nobody cares in Wales. We'll get a crew."

"And then?" Castiel asks, squinting up at the sky. "What are your plans?"

Dean puts his eye to the horizon, and walks to the helm. He puts his hand on the wheel, burnished bright and new.

"Then," he says, "we set sail."

….

The End.


	34. Final Notes

**Greek Characters/Elements and their Supernatural Analogues**

Odysseus – Dean and occasionally Sam

Troy – Brazil

Ithaca – England

Polyphemus the Cyclops – Gordon Walker

Circe – Bela

Calypso – Anna

Tiresias the Blind Seer – Pamela

Penelope – Lisa

Telemachus – Ben

The Suitors (known in this story as):

- Luke Ferrier – Lucifer (I feel bad about how punny that nearly is.)

- Father Michael Scruggs – Michael, in his vessel of Young John Winchester

- - (I know, I know, that's cheating because John Winchester is already a character in this story. But Adam is too young, and I just frickin' love Matt Cohen as Michael so I DO WHAT I WANT. )

Zeus – Chuck Shirley

Poseidon – Raphael, in his original vessel

Hermes – Gabriel aka The Trickster

Hades – Crowley

Persephone – Blonde Ruby, aka Ruby in her original vessel

- (Again with the cheating. Blonde Ruby is just 10 times more badass than Brunette Ruby, okay? I'M A MAVERICK.)

Artemis – Meg in her current vessel

Dionysus – Balthazar

Athena – Sheriff Jody Mills

Hera – Becky

Neither Castiel nor Jo have Greek analogues; Ash, Henrickson, Andy and the others are of course Odysseus's crew.

….

**Sequels, Epilogues and Spin-Offs That I Am Tempted to Write,**

**But Shall Refrain From**

Dean and Castiel remain together, the captain and his first mate. They have a rocky patch that results in Castiel drunkenly marooning Dean on an island and declaring himself captain, but once Sam sobers him up he comes back for Dean, and when they make land again they spend several nights in a disreputable inn making things up to each other.

Dean keeps up his correspondence with his son; when Ben is fifteen Dean writes him a long letter explaining the situation between him and Cas and asking him to try and keep from condemning him. He thinks it'll be the end of their correspondence, but he feels he owes his son that honesty. To Dean's surprise, Ben writes back.

Jo and Sam never marry and never have any children. They are very happy. Unlike Dean and Cas, they don't routinely bicker about petty disagreements and then resolve the arguments with athletic sex, but their love life is nothing to shake a stick at either.

Eventually Andy retires from pirating and comes to work at the orchard. He and Ash have jam sessions. Ash remains Ben's "cool uncle" type father figure and becomes one of the family. Ben becomes a printer and runs the local paper, and eventually gets politically involved because of it, becoming a well-respected man in his region.

A small, very sappy part of me wants maybe for there to be something between Lisa and Ash, but what I think would actually happen is that Ash would flirt with all the young girls in the village and have a marvelous time with it. And Lisa, presenting herself as the widowed Mrs. Smith now, gets noticed by the village butcher, who is really a sweet and quiet man who charges her less than he should. And while Lisa entertains the butcher in the evening with tea and biscuits, Ash is out drunk in someone's barn explaining to a wide-eyed country lass how he came back from the dead and his philosophy is to live in the moment.

They'd be good friends, though. I don't have any doubt about that.

….

**Other Notes**

I recently saw a commercial for the latest Ice Age movie (number four, I think?), and it features prehistoric animal pirates and elements of the Odyssey. So, either I psychically plagiarized a kids' animated sequel, or Pseudo-Greek Pirate Epic is just a natural point to come to when you've exhausted all other options.

Although the word count you see listed in the story info is around 95,000, without the Author's Notes it's only a little over 81,000. The moral of the story is that I talk a lot.

This is the longest story I've ever written.

Seriously.

And if it weren't a fanfic – i.e., if I weren't able to gloss over the whole "let's find Dad and also avenge the death of our mother" bit – it would probably be at least twice as long. I find the format extremely fitting because the Odyssey itself is a sequel, picking up where the Iliad leaves off. The Iliad tells the whole involved story of the battle of Troy and everything that happened during that 10 year war; the Odyssey starts with the triumphant warriors heading home and assumes you have some background knowledge about what they've been through up to now. All in all, if you put together the war and protracted sea voyage, it takes Odysseus 20 years to return to Ithaca. It only takes Dean eight.

Someone asked what version of the Odyssey I read, and I accidentally returned the book to the library before I wrote down the info. I do know that it was Viking Penguin Publishing version.

Before I decided to throw Greek gods in the mix, I pictured this story as a fun and fancy-free sex romp. Dean was going to be a pirate captain who sleeps with his strange new crewmate while at sea, but considers it to be a normal thing to resort to when there are no women around; eventually of course he realizes it's more than that blah blah blah.

I'm not sure how I ended up getting here from there.

Originally, I also planned to have Dean and Jo accidentally sleep together on Bela's island. But once I got to that point in the story and considered it, I realized it would be so damaging and so hurtful to all four involved (Dean, Jo, Sam, and Cas) that it would be nearly impossible to recover from. I couldn't do it. So I decided to go in a different, less agonizing direction and YOU'RE WELCOME.

No promises on the rewrite, though. :P

My greatest sadness in writing this story is the lack of room for Bobby and Ellen. In terms of 18th century gay sexual relations, having Bobby around is worse for the progress of the story than erectile dysfunction. It's one thing to write the old codger as understanding in a modern-day universe; in the 1700s, he'd be considered "understanding" if he gave Dean and Cas ten minutes to repent before lashing them to a stack of wood and setting them on fire. He might conceivably accept Dean's perversions as a private matter or a pirate vice, but he certainly wouldn't _approve_. Since he also didn't have an analogous character in the Odyssey, it was a hundred times easier just to leave him out. As for Ellen, since Jo ran away to become a pirate and I didn't have the time or inclination to write about her reuniting with her estranged mother, I couldn't really feature her. If I hadn't used Jo in the story, Ellen would have been Athena.

"Carry On Wayward Son" came on the radio yesterday, and as I was singing along I nearly smacked myself. I had struggled to find a good title for this story when one was staring me in the face all along! Think about these lyrics just before the chorus:

_On a stormy sea of moving emotion_

_Tossed about, I'm like a ship on the ocean  
_

_I set a course for winds of fortune,  
_

_but I hear the voices say...  
_

So, when I post the rewrite on LJ, it may or may not be titled "Winds of Fortune." Just so you know.

Thank you all for reading and reviewing. I love you guys.

...


End file.
